The Shadow That Passeth Away
by Marla Fair
Summary: A crazed historian from the USS Enterprise uses the Guardian of Forever to travel to 1777 Pennsylvania in order to change the outcome of the American Revolution by killing the Marquis de Lafayette. Kirk and company follow and ally themselves with a group of young insurgents in order to prevent this, but things go terribly wrong when Spock is shanghaied.
1. Prologue

THE SHADOW THAT PASSETH AWAY

Prologue

Chester Pennsylvania September 1777

 _ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Lafayette was dead.

He said it now and still couldn't believe it. But there was no denying it. There was no denying the elegant corpse riddled with bullets, the blood soaking the battlefield or the cold hand he had held before the Frenchman's long, lean body had been hastily buried in an unmarked grave to preserve it from further desecration. Just as there was no denying the incredible sense of loss or the impending knell of doom that sounded through young Captain Larkin's body as he looked at the burial site. He reached up and ran a hand through his honey-colored hair. The wind was strong; its voice plaintive, mournful, as if it _too_ acknowledged the passing of something great that – if it had been granted time to reach maturity – could have been _magnificent._

The captain stirred. He lifted an arm and struck the tears that unmanned him away with the back of his sleeve. The horror of the last day was paramount. The Continental Army had been routed; its losses counted not in the hundreds but the _thousands_. With the redcoat's success and the taking of the cannons, the British had begun their final push. Soon, they would own the capital. General Washington's men were demoralized. Even more than the well-oiled, precision-drilled machine of the British empire they had faced, the death of the French marquis, whose body lay before him cradled in American soil, had broken them. Dozens had simply thrown their weapons down and fled, never to return. The blond man's eyes flicked to the river running close beside him. It was a placid blue now. The day before it had run crimson as the coats of the men who sought to break them and the spirit of liberty.

 _Liberty._

There was little left of that this day; this day after the battle at the Brandywine.

It was foolish of him to be here, but he had felt compelled to come. He had been in the midst of the fray when it happened. The young major general had been shot, but Lafayette had made it off the field. Sergeant Evans had been with him. Then, at the edge of the water, a British major had spotted the Frenchman and, in seconds, it had all been over.

The ramifications of that death – on an international level – made the blond man shudder. They had hoped that Lafayette's entry into the war would mean, in time, that of the French king and his navy as well. The young aristocrat's family was important enough that his word _could_ have been the deciding factor. Lafayette's death might prove to be as well. It could compel the French to remain neutral, or – Heaven forfend! – drive them to join with their ancient enemy _against_ the fledgling union of confederated states. What was worse, the consequences of the young Frenchman's death on a personal level might prove even _greater_. When George Washington had been told, the great man had fallen into despair, suffering what some termed a fit of apoplexy. The cumulative effects of the defeat they had suffered and the loss of his _adopted_ son might well prove more than the older man could bear.

It was almost more than _he_ could bear.

And then, there was his own _personal_ purgatory. So great had been the losses – so devastating the grief and potential for even more disaster, that he had pushed his own feelings aside. The thought of it now was almost enough to kill _him_. Even though he knew his men did not hold him at fault, he held himself responsible. How could he not have seen where the path was leading? How could he _not_ have known?

 _How could he have been so blind?_

"Sir?"

The blond man stiffened, but did not reply.

"Captain Larkin? Sir?"

The tall man hesitated and then pivoted sharply on his heel to look at his aide, Phillip Stoner, who was standing behind him. A humble grave had been dug for the French aristocrat just within the tree line near a bend in the river flanking the field. It was dangerous to be here. His men had begged him not to come but he had refused to listen. Turning reddened eyes on his lean young aide, Captain Larkin demanded, "What is it, Phillip? I told you I wished to be alone. No one was to follow. It is highly risky."

"Sir. We've received a message from headquarters. Your presence is demanded. New plans must be made." His aide hesitated. "And there is the matter of the prisoners…." Philip's voice trailed off to nothing at his captain's look.

"Tell them…" the blond man hesitated, "tell them I will come in time. I must go to town to speak to my father first. I must…."

"Sir. The summons was from General Lee. His Excellency is reported not to be doing well." Stoner paused. When Philip spoke again, his voice trembled. "There is talk of surrender."

If you chopped off a chicken's head it would continue to run around for some time, until someone – or something – told it that it was dead. Could the same thing be said for the Continental Army and the hope of independence without Lafayette and, perhaps, George Washington? If they continued on, would it only prove a waste of even _more_ irreplaceable lives?

Captain Larkin nodded. "Take word back. I will come."

"The general asked if you wanted a private interview with the prisoners before the trial. What word shall I take back?"

What word indeed?

"My apologies, Phillip, for bearing the same _blood_ in my veins as the assassin of all our hopes. That is what you may take back." The captain's eyes flicked to the turned earth with its light coating of leaves and bracken under which the marquis had only just begun his eternal sleep. It was one of his blood who had done this – one of his family who had betrayed them and brought about Lafayette's death. His blood. His kin.

His _brother._

"Sir?"

Captain Larkin sighed. "I will see him and his friends. I must ask him – I must _know_ how this happened. How he came to turn against all that is good and true. _Why_ he chose to betray his country." The ragged emotion in his voice surprised even him. Could love turn to hate _so_ quickly and so _completely?_ "My God…."

Phillip held his gaze for a moment and then stepped forward to place a hand on his sleeve. "Robert, you cannot blame yourself."

Captain Robert Larkin blinked his cobalt blue eyes even as the rising wind tossed a spiraling lock of golden blond hair into them. He struck the curls back with more violence than was necessary as if – with that action – he could strike away all that had occurred within the last twenty-four hours. Washington defeated. Lafayette killed. The British triumphant.

His brother Jeremy revealed to be a murderer and traitor.

Robert's lips parted. "Jeremy….how _could_ you?"

It was the dawn of September the 12th, 1777, and nothing would _ever_ be the same.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sector 90.4, Stardate 32.31.4

The place was rocky, barren as a womb that would never know a child. The wind howled with madness, keening for a loss it could not understand and tossing dirt in their faces with disrespect as if challenging their presence. But he understood. Captain James Tiberius Kirk understood only too well. He had been here before, with these same men at his side. Both were ashen pale as he, which was saying quite a bit for Spock. Even the green tinge had fled the Vulcan's skin. Though it was not the past of his first officer's world they looked at, what had happened had effected the Vulcan as well. It had effected everything and every one. Lightning never strikes twice, they said.

Whoever _they_ were, they were _wrong._

Spock's dark head was bent as if in prayer, his intense near-black stare glued to the tricorder screen as images flashed past faster than the eye could follow. The blue-white light of the strange donut-shaped Guardian of Forever acted like a strobe, alternately lighting and masking the lean aesthetic face, casting Spock in the role Bones often claimed was made for him – that of a demon or devil. But it wasn't the Vulcan who was the demon in this tale.

It was Lt. Commander Happer Clayworth, the Enterprise's new historian.

Kirk chewed his lip a moment, trying to be patient. He might as well have tried to take a vacation. "Anything, Spock?"

The Vulcan's head shook imperceptibly. His eyes never left the screen.

"He's chatty today, isn't he?" A wry voice remarked sarcastically from the area near his right elbow. "Must be the bright and cheery atmosphere."

Kirk's dark hazel eyes flicked to his surgeon and friend's face. The joke was lame. Leonard McCoy was off of his game today. No wonder. This was _too_ close for all of them.

"You okay, Bones?" When he didn't reply, Kirk tried again. "Bones?"

The surgeon shrugged. "Guess I'm not feeling chatty either."

"Captain. I believe I have found the pivotal moment."

A veritable flood of words. Kirk nodded. "Let's have it, Spock."

"As you will recall, in the latter years of your world's 18th century, the triumph of the United States in the conflict known as the American Revolution served as the foundation stone for all that followed, including the ultimate fate of the Federations of Planets. A collection of what was often referred to as 'rag tag' soldiers defeated the might of, what was then, the greatest empire on the Earth – the United Kingdom."

"I know, Spock," Jim said softly. And he knew Spock _knew_ he did. It was a personal interest of his and one of the greatest stories ever told; men without clothes on their backs, with rags tied about their bleeding feet, starving, ill, dying of the cold, somehow rallying to defeat the well-armed and magnificently trained British army.

"The odds of victory were, at best, precarious," the Vulcan continued. "There were even those who went so far as to insert supernatural means. While that inclusion is doubtful, it is true that one small event could have tipped the scales and altered the outcome."

"And Clayworth has done something to cause that to happen?"

The Vulcan stepped out of the Guardian's light and came to his side. "Permit me to show you, Captain."

"I thought the images went too fast…"

Spock looked slightly miffed. "After our…last encounter with the Guardian, I configured the tricorder to be able to both record _and_ decelerate the transmissions automatically. The delay occasioned the last time in obtaining accurate information induced ramifications that were," the Vulcan's ebon eyes locked on his, "most unfortunate."

It still hurt. Loving and then, losing Edith.

Kirk nodded his head. "Well done, Mr. Spock. Let me see what you have."

The Vulcan's long fingers played with the control, moving back through the series of monotone images. When they stopped, he pointed toward the screen. "Observe."

The pictures were tiny. Kirk squinted but couldn't make them out. He was too young to need glasses. Wasn't he?

The starship captain was eternally grateful when Leonard McCoy peered over his shoulder and barked, "You'd have to be a damn magnifying glass to read that! What does it say?"

Spock looked at them with that air of resigned patience he perpetually wore when dealing with humans. "It is a copy of a colonial newspaper out of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, dated September 14th, 1777. It announces the death of George Washington."

"So?" Kirk asked. Then he paused. "No wait. Seventeen _seventy-seven_?"

The Vulcan nodded. "Twenty-two years before the actual date."

"But the war had just begun."

Spock nodded. "According to the timeline created after Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth's insertion into it, the conflict's end came less than one year later when the colonies made peace with England and remained a part of Great Britain."

"Good God!" Bones was truly rattled. Not all that long before the surgeon's actions, while under the influence of the drug cordrazine, had caused a similar shift in the history of the United States, delaying its entry into World War II and causing Germany to win. They had straightened that one out – through sheer grit and determination to do what was right in spite of what was _desired._ It was inconceivable that they were here again. But here they were. And this time, Starfleet was to blame. On the issue of the Guardian he and Spock had differed. The Vulcan had insisted that limited use was a necessary risk and that anything else would be unfair to science. Kirk had argued against using the time portal even for research. The consequences if something went wrong were incalculable. If they survived this and managed to restore the current timeline yet again, he was going to recommend that the planet _and_ the Guardian be quarantined.

 _Forever._

"Apparently, Captain, Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth has fulfilled his manic dreams," Spock remarked almost casually. "The English won the war. The United States never came into being."

Therefore, nothing they had known was the same. Oh, the Enterprise had still been there when they checked in a few minutes ago, but it was no longer his ship. There was a different commander – one with an English accent. Great Britain, it seemed, never lost its hold, eventually swallowing some 90 percent of the known world. Those who did not belong to the empire were under constant assault and treated as hostile nations. Slavery had never been abolished and the ranks of those who served were made up of the indigenous people of the various regions. In time, over the centuries, England had become a complete tyrant.

They expected a security detail from the ship any minute, come to arrest them.

"Can you ask the Guardian to put us down at the right place and time, Spock? Do you have enough information?" Kirk's eyes flicked to the sky, which was brooding. "We may have visitors any minute."

"'May' is a nice word," Bones drawled.

"But hardly accurate, Doctor," Spock replied. "I suggest we have one point three five nine minutes to make our decision."

"One point three five nine? Why not, one point three five eight?" the surgeon groused.

"It is now one point three three _five,_ Doctor." Spock's lips compressed with impatience. "If I take time to explain, we will have point three three five."

"Never mind, Spock," Kirk barked. "Can you do it?"

The Vulcan shrugged; a gesture that was almost as frightening as what they faced. "With reasonable certainty. I can place us within a week of the event – perhaps a few days. The location seems to be rural Pennsylvania, not far from the capital city, a place called Chester." Spock looked up. "The modifications to the tricorder, while not all that I might have hoped, have rendered it _slightly_ more accurate in its depiction of – "

Kirk caught his friend's arm. "No time! Spock…." The familiar hum of an incoming transport added a fearful strain to the Guardian's baleful tune. "Do it!"

The Vulcan nodded and began to walk toward the time portal.

Kirk did the same. When McCoy didn't, he turned back toward his friend. "Bones?"

The surgeon looked _positively_ ill. "Jim, I don't know if I can," he said, licking his lips.

The captain's eyes took in the forming red-shirted shapes. They had only seconds. "Bones, I need you. _History_ needs you!" He stopped and then added with one of his most winning smiles, "Besides, who is going to patch up Spock if you don't come?"

McCoy's lips twitched. "An 18th century Vulcan, now _that_ is something I wouldn't want to miss."

"Captain. Fifteen seconds," Spock's voice tolled. "Fourteen…."

They had about the same margin of time before the transport was complete.

Kirk held his friend's gaze. The surgeon swallowed hard and then nodded.

Ten seconds later the three of them jumped through the pulsing opening in the Guardian of Forever and plunged into time.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Our time is a very shadow that passeth away. Solomon

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The young Frenchman, Gilbert du Motier, also known as the Marquis de Lafayette and a newly christened major general in the Continental army of the United states, leaned against the wall in his general's quarters listening to the debate. It was heated to say the least. Though he felt he had much to add, he remained silent. It would not do for him to impose his thoughts on such great and experienced men – they would be neither welcomed nor heeded. After all, he was not yet twenty years old. Armstrong. Wayne. Greene. Sullivan. These were names and men he was just coming to know. All carried considerable credentials against which his time in a military academy and service as what amounted to King Louis's bodyguard quickly paled. He noted with great attention to detail the efforts of the last few weeks, all of which had proved ineffective. Due to the British army's rapid deployment from the area between Elk's Head and Philadelphia – it was impossible to believe thousands of men could move so fast! – General Washington had not been able to adequately gauge the strength of the opposing forces. After the skirmish at Cooch's Bridge, His Excellency had ordered camp to be set up where they were now – on Red Clay Creek. The left of the army was on Christiana, the right in the direction of Chadd's Ford near the Brandywine.

It was the morning of September the 7th and they had just received word that the British army under Howe might be on the move. In spite of the fact that the Continentals had dug in, building redoubts and entrenchments, it looked as if they would be forced to flee. That meant moving the cannon that were placed on the rise as thick as they could stand, as well as thousands of men – practically under Howe's long nose! At the moment the discussion centered on where and how. Apparently there were three fords that were of paramount importance: Pile's, Wistar's, and Chadd's. Pile's was to the south, Wistar's to the north, and Chadd's Ford had been chosen as the high ground where they would meet the British – if they could goad them into attacking when and where they wanted.

The older generals were quite vocal in their support and disagreement. General Washington sat at the table, his long form leaning back in his chair, his fingers interlocked and laying on the buff-colored waistcoat of his military uniform. His crystal clear blue eyes were narrowed. If one had not known, they might have thought him asleep. But, like General Wayne, Washington rarely slept – and even when he did, there was some sixth sense that seemed to guide him. He was listening and learning, allowing his men to do the debating for him. As Lafayette watched the older man shifted slightly. Those stabbing blue eyes opened and they fixed on his. The young Frenchman straightened up. Even a glance was enough to make him feel like an unkempt, undisciplined child. As panic registered on his young face, the great man _smiled._

The effect was electric. General Wayne who had been talking – well, _shouting_ – ceased, as did all the others. All eyes turned to the Virginia planter turned soldier.

"Sir?" Wayne asked. "Something?"

Washington shifted forward to lean his hands on the table. "We have not heard from the youngest member of the family," he said, the smile widening. "Gilbert, your thoughts?"

" _Moi?"_ Lafayette gulped, forgetting to translate his thoughts.

The general's smile was tight, but it was there. " _Vous."_

The young man cleared his throat. Near a dozen eyes had turned and fastened on him. "It would seem to me, _mon general_ , that intelligence would be of paramount importance at this juncture. We cannot make a move unless we know where it is safe _to_ move."

"We have all the intelligence we need!" Anthony Wayne barked. "We've got it running out of our damn drawers! What we need is action!"

" _Oui._ Reasonable action based on knowledge." Lafayette swallowed over his awe of the other man. "Without it, we are dead men."

"If you can call yourself a 'man'," the Frenchman heard someone remark sotto voce.

Washington heard it as well. "If that comment bared repeating," the great man said as he rose from his chair, "I would order it. I will have you gentlemen remember that Alexander the Great crushed the Maedi insurgence at the tender age of sixteen. Length of life is no indication of ability, and sometimes it is the cause of caution that leads to disaster." Washington straightened his coat and then locked his arms behind his back. "For all we know, the marquis could take on General Howe and win, leaving all of us old men in the dust!"

Lafayette prayed he was not blushing. " _Merci, mon general_ ," he breathed softly.

"We have already seen our Congress make this young man, with his zeal for our cause, feel most unwelcome." The ice blue eyes shot around the table. "I will not have the brutish ill manners of seasoned officers added to that."

There were murmurs of 'yes' and 'aye, General'.

Washington continued to hold their gazes for several heartbeats, then he moved toward the door. "Debate is ended. I shall consider all that has been said and let you know when I have come to my decision." His eyes flicked to Lafayette where he stood by the wall. "Walk with me, Gilbert."

They passed outside and into the encampment. It had been hastily erected in preparation for war. It was expected that here was where they would make their stand against General Howe and King George's men. It amazed Lafayette still that he was here. Mention of Alexander had taken him back – only a few years – to his days in the classroom. War on the written page would prove very different from its reality, as he was certain he was soon to find out. As they walked, the young Frenchman became aware that his general had a specific destination in mind. Washington's long stride propelled them forward. They passed several redoubts and encroachments before stopping before a tent. The men on guard outside it fell back even as their mouths fell open and their trembling hands were raised in a salute.

"Gen…General Washington," one of them stammered. "What can we do for you?"

"I'm looking for Captain Larkin. Is he within?"

"Aye, sir!" the soldier snapped. "Shall I – "

"Did I hear my name?" a handsome man with a crown of unruly golden curls asked as he stepped outside the tent. The instant he saw the general he was all attention. "Your Excellency!" he snapped as sharply as his heels. "Command me, I am at your service."

"At ease, Robert," the general said. Lafayette was surprised to hear genuine affection in the older man's voice. "How goes it with you?"

"Well, sir, though it would be _better_ if I had made a few of the coats the British wear even redder." The captain's smile was disarming.

"You shall have more than ample opportunity soon. Robert," Washington gestured toward Lafayette, "have you met our youngest general yet?"

Robert smiled. "His reputation proceeds him."

"Oh?" Lafayette stifled a frown. " _Bon_ , I hope."

"Better than ' _bon_ '." Captain Larkin laughed. "Humble. Eager to learn and to serve. What more could one ask?"

"Humble?" Lafayette hoped he did not seem _too_ amazed. "My wife's father would beg to differ. As would King Louis."

"'I came to learn, not to teach.' I believe those are your words, General."

When he said nothing, Washington replied. "Robert, I would like you to operate as aide to General Lafayette for the duration of this crisis."

The blond man pursed his lips in surprise, but then bowed in acceptance. "Gladly, sir."

Lafayette wondered what this was all about. He already had several aides, including his sergeant. For some reason – in spite of Washington's words of confidence in his abilities back in the command room – he had the suspicion that he had just been assigned one more nursemaid.

" _Mon general_ …" he began in protest.

George Washington looked at him. A second later the great man reached out and placed his hands on the young Frenchman's shoulders. "Gilbert, I know your desire is to fight and I promise, before this is over, you will have your wish. But for now, humor an old man who cares for you. Captain Larkin is one of my finest men. The time is critical. We may have needs to move with expedience and stealth. I need to know that you are safe."

It wouldn't do to have his lower lip tremble. That would only prove him _le enfant._ Lafayette stiffened his spine and took his punishment. " _Oui._ I mean, aye, _mon general_." He hesitated and then added with respect. "But is there nothing I can do?"

The great man hesitated. He pursed his lips and pulled at his beardless chin for a moment. "You mentioned gathering intelligence in the briefing. Do you really feel this is vital?"

" _Très_ vital."

"As do I, sir. We need more civilians moving among the citizens of the towns and the British ranks," Robert chimed in. "Rumors run swift as the Delaware. Each one might hold a vital piece of truth."

Washington was studying them. "Then I have an assignment for you two. You will leave immediately."

Lafayette brightened immensely. " _Mon general!"_ he snapped.

"See the sutler for suitable clothes. I want you to take Gilbert with you into Chester, Robert. He is not known here as of yet." Washington's eyes flicked to the younger of the two men. "You will have to mind your tongue. If there are soldiers about, let Robert do the speaking. Though it is not unheard of for Frenchman to be in the area, these days your nationality will put you under suspicion."

" _Oui_ ," he readily agreed.

"I need to know what the current of the town is. Are they for us or against us? If retreat becomes necessary, may we look for help and succor there? Or, if forced to flee, will the inhabitants turn us in?" Washington paused. "How goes the battle with your father, Robert?"

"Deadlocked, sir." Robert shook his golden head. "He cannot see the necessity of the Cause."

"A shame. Your brother, Jeremy?"

Lafayette watched as several emotions flickered through Robert's deep blue eyes: affection, anger, acceptance. "Still drinking and sporting, I am afraid. No help, but no hindrance to us either."

"Then it can do no harm to make contact with them. Take the day that is now dawning to reconnoiter the village. Return at nightfall." For the first time the great man looked worried. "If something changes, I will get word to you through Philip."

"Have you word on the movements of Howe's army?" Robert asked.

Washington shook his head. "Nothing as of yet, but I am ill at ease." He continued to frown for a moment, but as his eyes returned to the young Frenchman standing before him, he smiled. "Gilbert, it is fare well for now. Bring me important news." The general reached out and brushed Lafayette's sleeve with his arm, then he turned and walked away.

Leaving the Frenchman alone with Robert Larkin.

"He truly cares for you," the blond man remarked without rancor.

Lafayette blinked. "How do you know that?"

Robert's smile was infectious. "Because he treats you as a child. No parent wants to put their child in harm's way. In fact, they would die first. I imagine about now he is regretting Congress making you a major general."

The Frenchman was stunned. Such a thing was _impossible!_

"Don't take me wrong. I have no doubt General Washington believes you capable of leading men into battle, of fighting – and dying." The blond man shrugged his shoulders. "It is that last one that he fears."

"And so he sends me off to safety, like an unweaned babe." He heard the pout in his voice and regretted it.

"Safety?" Robert turned and caught his tricorn hat from the table outside the door of his tent. "Good God! He's sent you off to meet my father.

"He must think you formidable indeed."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Near the bridge that led over the river running through Chester, in an alley still darkened by shadows as yet untouched by the rising sun, three figures popped into existence. They quickly sought those shadows, melting into and becoming one with them. Fortunately the alley was deserted with the single exception of a vendor with a cart stationed just at its end, some sixty feet from them. The pungent odor of dead fish assaulted James Kirk's nostrils as they flared, taking in the olfactory reality of the new world they had landed in.

"Where's the cesspool?" McCoy groused.

"Center of the street most likely, Doctor," Spock replied rapid fire. "A common practice for the day. As was dumping excrement from windows." The Vulcan's eyes flicked to the opening above their heads. "If I remember correctly, Mr. Scott informed me that the term indicating one should mind one's head was ' _gardyloo_ '."

"And just what conversation were you having when that little gem of information came up?"

Did Kirk see a flicker of amusement in those dark eyes? Without missing a beat, Spock replied, "Plumbing."

"What?" McCoy sputtered.

"Gentlemen, I think we have more pressing matters to turn our attention to." As he spoke, the man with the fish cart turned and looked their way. After a moment, Kirk shook his head and turned back to the street. "Starfleet issued clothing is not exactly the 'dress of the day'."

"We didn't have time for preparation, Jim," McCoy argued. "What do you expect us to do? We don't have any money or anything the Prime Directive will allow us to trade."

"Well," Kirk rubbed his hands together. "We can always do what Spock and I did back on 1930s Earth. We…borrowed…some clothes."

If the Vulcan could look nonplussed, he did. "Captain, while you are an excellent commander and strategist, I feel compelled to remind you of the outcome of that particular command decision. I believe in this century that such an action would attract the attention of what is known as a sheriff. The local constabulary would, no doubt, feel compelled to punish or jail us." Spock shifted his tricorder forward and opened the hood. "I, for one, have no intellectual curiosity concerning the stocks."

Bones looked confused, as usual. "Stocks? You mean they already have the stock market?"

The long-suffering look returned. "The stocks, Doctor, are similar to the pillory and the pranger. Each consists of a set of large hinged wooden boards. When a person is placed in the stocks, their feet are locked in place, sometimes their hands or head. Or they may be chained."

Bones snapped his fingers. "That's right. It was a form of public humiliation." The surgeon put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, a sure sign that a baiting phrase was forthcoming. "Didn't they also nail people's _ears_ to the boards? You better watch out, Spock."

Spock didn't rise to it. "I always endeavor to do so, Doctor." The Vulcan looked up. His face wore a hint of a frown. "The tricorder is working mechanically, but its' data function is not accessible, Captain."

"In a completley pre-technological society, that's not surprising, Mr. Spock. Most likely only the mechanical items – our phasers, the tricorder screen, but not its data functions – will work." Kirk grinned. "You, as usual, my Vulcan friend are going to pose a challenge."

"I keep telling him he should let me bob his ears," McCoy muttered. "Or let his hair grow. You know, Spock, the women would really go for you if you adopted that scruffy sort of highway robber look."

Kirk grinned broadly. "Bones, you're a genius!"

"Never doubted it," the surgeon agreed. "How come?"

"This is the late 18th century. Most men, at least those of some means, wear wigs. All we have to do is find a wigmaker and… _appropriate_ one."

"Captain," Spock warned. "I find myself forced once again to remind you– "

"Tut, tut, Spock," Kirk dismissed him with a wave of his fingers. "Larceny is in every ship's captain's blood."

"I see," Spock remarked, closing the tricorder's hood. "Just as artifice and chicanery are the tools of the medical man. I am heartened to find that you two will have no difficulty fitting into this primitive, racially charged, Caucasian dominated, ignorant, and uncultered society, which has not even begun to _approach_ stone knives and bearskins."

"I think we've just been insulted, Jim," McCoy snorted.

Jim gave the expected reply. "I _know_ we have. Okay, now we need a plan."

"I would suggest, Captain, that you step one point two three meters to your right," Spock remarked in his usual unperturbed way as he followed his own orders.

"Why is that? What's – "

The warning came five point three five seconds too late. Kirk heard something stir above him. He looked up, and then he heard it.

 _Gardyloo._

Beside him, McCoy pinched his nose. "Larceny is looking – and smelling – pretty _damn_ good right now."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeremy Larkin was lazing in the sun, eating an apple; his back propped against one of the tall iron lamp poles that illuminated Chester's main street. For a September day it was dawning warm enough. The chill of winter had not yet set in. He was enjoying the view, watching the daughters of various houses going to market. Not a few of them threw looks – and a couple – kisses his way as they passed.

His roleplaying as a ne'er-do-well and inamorato did have its advantages.

"Jeremy Larkin, you wipe that smile off your face," a light voice scolded.

Caught off guard, Jeremy bit his cheek instead of the apple. Smarting he turned, eyes brimming with tears, on the source of the voice, which happened to be a lovely and moderately incensed Elizabeth Coates. Her hands were anchored on her hips and she had her dark head cocked to the left in that way that effected him. Swallowing over a lump of fruit, he greeted her. "I thought you were in the city."

"We've just returned. Uncle has a wagonload of goods. China, pipes, tankards and mugs, new clothes for himself and the hired hands, and a dozen other things he means to sell. He sold that back pasture and I guess now he thinks he should live as a king. He talks of going back soon." She slipped her arm into his. "I don't want to go away again. I missed you."

Jeremy wasn't quite certain what to say. He and Elizabeth flirted from time to time. He knew it was more serious for her than for him. Women were that way. "I missed you too," he said at last, tossing the apple away so he could place his hand over hers.

"You did not. There are plenty of others more than willing to take my place. You don't have me fooled, Mr. Larkin."

"Bess, they don't mean anything." He lowered his voice. "You know I have to keep up _appearances_."

She reached up and touched his cheek. Her tone was half in jest. "But you don't have to enjoy it."

"Master Larkin, you take your hands off of my niece or you will surely end in in prison!"

"Oh no," Elizabeth sighed. "Uncle John."

"Sir," Jeremy began, spinning to look at the older man, "I assure you I meant no disrespect. Elizabeth was just helping me. I had something in my eye – "

"Aye, you did! The vision of my niece!" John Coates snatched Elizabeth's wrist and pulled her hand away. Then, without another word, he proceeded to haul her across the street. As she waved a pitiful goodbye, Jeremy felt his jaw tense. The older man came close at times to making him lose his temper. He wondered just how many of Coates' objections were rooted in fear for her, and how many in his own need to control everything his niece did. Maybe some day he would take her away from it all….

But this was no time to speculate on that. There was work to do.

After kicking the remainder of the apple into the street for a tethered horse to chomp on, Jeremy started across. He watched out of the corner of his eye as John Coates dragged Elizabeth into the ale house. So much for her reputation! Then it dawned on him that the older man considered the disorderly patrons of the tavern more respectable company for Bess than him and he started to laugh. He had done a superb job of creating a persona believed by everyone. Even by his brother, Robert. Jeremy sobered quickly. There, he wished he had not been so successful.

His admiration for Robert knew no bounds. His brother had been away for a while obtaining an education, and had come back in time for all the troubles to begin. Early on Robert had walked out of the house – against their father's wishes – to join Washington's army. He was a captain now with men and responsibilities of his own. Jeremy envied them. They knew Robert and he, in turn, knew them. They were bound together by purpose and ideal, by that bond that made them brothers in a way he and Robert could never be.

At least not until he was honest with him.

That day would come, he kept telling himself, but until then – to protect their families and themselves – their Society _must_ remain secret.

He was due to meet Henry and Isak in the alley by the bridge and then the three of them meant to retire to the apothecary shop. They had received word that Washington's army was encamped at Red Clay Creek and it looked as if there might be a confrontation with the British yet tonight. They meant to make certain the army's rear was covered in case anything went wrong. Henry was in the midst of fashioning a series of cannisters, the contents of which he assured them could blast the redcoats all the way back to the United Kingdom. The three of them had come to town seeking additional supplies.

They had not expected to need the weapons so soon.

It had not been prudent for them to seek the materials needed – gunpowder, wire, and such – in one town, lest they arouse suspicion. And so Henry had gone to Marcus Hook, while Isak traveled to Darby. Their rendezvous was set for half past ten, which was about...

Now.

As he reached the other side of the street, aimed for the alley, Jeremy saw Elizabeth and her uncle exit the tavern and head for their wagon. As usual Coates let Bess climb in by herself. Halting, Jeremy admired the way the dawn's light caught fire in her long, loose hair, turning the near black waves to a deep copper brown. He noticed the curve of her neck and the straight posture created by the stays beneath her gown. A hint of one of the cords that held them in place peeked enticingly through where she had missed a few inches of the calico fabric when pinning it closed. Distracted by thoughts he shouldn't be thinking, Jeremy pulled his eyes away and headed for the alley.

Almost mowing down a blond haired man whose arms were laden with partially opened packages wrapped in paper and string.

"Pardon me, sir," Jeremy said, excusing himself.

The man's hazel eyes met his and he nodded before turning into the alley and fading from view.

At the same moment a cry went up from the street calculated to raise the dead.

"Robbed! I've been _robbed!_ Call the constable! Alert the mayor! I want the villains found and my goods returned!"

It was, of course, John Coates. Jeremy stifled a grin. It wasn't Christian of him to enjoy another man's suffering, but enjoy it he was anyway.

Sidling over to the wagon he glanced at Elizabeth who was trying her best to calm her uncle down. The older man would have none of it. He continued to rant until he drew the attention of a pair of British soldiers patrolling the street. Jeremy had no reason to fear them – no more, that was, than any other citizen of Chester – but their presence raised the hackles on his neck. The soldiers looked slightly bemused as they listened to Coates rant. Still, no matter what he thought of the older man, a crime had apparently been committed. Several items were missing from the wagon. Among them were food and a half-dozen pieces of men's clothing.

Jeremy had been about to ask Elizabeth's uncle if there was anything he could do to help when he remembered the blond man beating a hasty retreat with his arms laden with bundles. He knew now where he had seen the paper wrappings before – at a fine tailor's shop in Philadelphia that his brother, Robert, patronized while in school. Puzzled, Jeremy nodded to Elizabeth that he was going. Her pitiful look almost made him stay, but he signaled that he needed to go. And then he did.

As he reached the alley, Jeremy stepped back to allow a trio of men to pass. The tallest of them had an unflapped tricorn hat pulled low to cover his face. He was lean as a racehorse and moved with a measured grace. He wore black breeches over black boots, the cut of which Jeremy was unfamiliar with, along with an open-necked white linen shirt and charcoal gray frock coat. The second man was several inches shorter and of a more medium build. He was dressed in a brown suit, much like the ones Elizabeth's uncle often wore. A long cravat had been wound about his neck. When he saw Jeremy watching, he tipped his hat and smiled. The third of their party was proceeded by a stale odor as if he sorely needed a bath. He had blond hair that rolled in golden waves across his head, and was attired all in blue. Jeremy looked down as they passed. This stranger had the same odd looking boots.

He watched for a moment to see what way they were headed, which seemed to be northwest and out of town. Then he turned into the alley and walked its length. Not surprisingly, Jeremy found a pile of pale blue paper stuffed into a window well.

As he pondered the meaning of what had transpired, a friendly voice hailed him from the far end of the alley.

It was Isak. "Ho, Jeremy!" the black man called as he drew alongside him. Henry Abington puffed, perhaps, ten seconds behind him. Isak stopped and followed his friend's stare, which led to nothing and nowhere. "What troubles you?"

Those men did. He didn't know why, he didn't know what for, but one thing he knew – he was _going_ to find out.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter two

Robert Larkin entered the village of Chester with his exceptional charge in tow. The town was awake and filled with vendors, noisy neighbors and, unfortunately, British troops. Chester had lately been placed under martial law and a curfew enforced. There was rumor that British soldiers were soon to be quartered there, but so far there had been no sign of the implementaiton of that final and most _heinous_ violation of rights. Robert cast a sideways glance at his companion. He wished the marquis knew better how to slouch. The young Frenchman's aristocratic bearing was a dead giveaway that he was more than a common worker or tradesman. Robert had thought about it on the ride to town and had decided to pass him off as a friend and student from the University of Pennsylvania. There were a good many foreigners matriculating in Philadelphia, including Frenchmen who usually came from upperclass families. As such the young major general's elegant manners and upperclass speech would not seem out of place.

At least, he _hoped_ they wouldn't.

Before they did anything else, he intended to take the general to his home. Once he had Lafayette safely behind closed doors, he would be able to breathe – and _think._ He did not fear his father or Jeremy's reaction to this unusual stranger. For good or ill, they trusted him – and him, them. They had few secrets among them but, if they did, then the need for such caution was respected. After that, he and the Frenchman would spend a day on the town, mingling and listening.

That was, if he could convince the general of his plan. Lafayette did, after all, outrank him by a bit.

They were standing in the shade of a great oak tree. Lafayette's deep brown eyes were fixed on a group of British soldiers who were standing outside Morris' Tavern. It was a place of ill repute and Robert very much wished to avoid it. Neither the redcoats nor the tavern's reputation seemed to bother the Frenchman, but they _certainly_ did him.

"Sir, I think we should be on our way," Robert suggested.

Lafayette turned toward him. "Why go to your home, Captain? Why not begin the chase right now?"

He lifted a hand to brush a cascading wave of golden curls from his forehead. The wind had risen and promised a chill night. "Sir," Robert insisted, his voice pitched low, "I think it best to devise a plan of attack – which buildings we wish to visit, what are the best times to do so, and so on. It would be… _rash_ to begin without doing so first."

He saw the word strike Lafayette as he had intended it to. One of the complaints of the older generals was that the young Frenchman was too impetuous.

Unfortunately, it only seemed to make him more determined.

"Half the day is gone already. We leave before the curfew falls, which I presume is at sunset?"

Robert nodded.

"That gives us less than six hours to explore the village and gather intelligence." The young major general's eyes returned to the tavern. The redcoats had gone inside. "It seems to me that we could find a better place to…devise a plan of attack."

Robert knew of the Frenchman's hatred of the British. It was common knowledge in the camps that part of what had brought Lafayette to America had been a desire to see his father's death at Minden avenged. Could he trust him to remain calm in the presence of English troops? Could he trust the English soldiers to remain calm if they caught scent of a Frenchman?

What _had_ General Washington been thinking?

Lafayette grinned at his exagerated sigh. "His Excellency often does that," he said, straight-faced.

The blond's blue eyes narrowed. "Do tell. Sir, I…."

"Must I make it an order, _Captain?_ "

Robert had heard the jokes – the French fop, some of the men called him; a poppinjay dressed in silks and lace. A coxcomb who sprang from the lap of French luxury, soft, and suited only for frivolities. They had never met the man who stood before him or looked into his eyes. There was steel there, and a fiery resolution to do what must be done and see it through to the end.

"General Washington's order would supersede yours, sir," he said softly.

"And did His Excellency give you any orders _specific_ to our task? Did he forbid me entering a tavern and taking a drink?"

He'd had to try. "No, sir."

"Well, then. Shall we go?"

Robert reached out and caught the Frenchman's arm. "Will you at least allow me to do the speaking, sir? There is no need to draw undue attention."

Lafayette looked nonplussed. His voice the tone of innocence itself, he asked, "But we will learn more if we cause a commotion, will we not?"

The blond man blinked, stunned. "Sir!"

The Frenchman continued to stare for a moment. Then he laughed. "You are far too serious, _mon ami_. Come," he slapped Robert on the back and then started forward, "you may order my drink, but flirting with the barmaid is a privilege of rank."

Robert ran a hand over his face and then he turned his eyes heavenward.

What had he done to deserve such a fate?

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Spock, drink something," Bones growled. "Someone will mistake you for an undercover constable if you just sit there staring."

James Kirk's hazel eyes flicked from McCoy to their Vulcan friend. They had chosen a table in the corner and Spock occupied its shadows. Still, a sconce anchored to the wall above his head cast a hellish light, revealing the angular planes of his face. The Vulcan's near-black eyes moved with a predator's surety, watching and calculating, weighing and assessing the movements of all of the inn's two dozen or so patrons. They had ordered him an ale, but it sat on the table untouched. Spock wasn't one to drink, though Kirk had known him to partake on occasion – when logic dictated it was necessary.

"At least pretend to be enjoying yourself!" the surgeon growled.

Spock didn't dignify the request with an answer, but he did slip his long fingers into the pewter cup's handle.

It was interesting. McCoy's earlier jibe about Spock attracting more women if he adopted a rakish air seemed to be proven true by how often the barmaid had come to check and see if he needed anything. It made Kirk smile. The Vulcan was completely oblivious. By trading some of the extra clothes they had _borrowed_ , they had managed to obtain a wig for him. The current style – parted in the middle and nearly shoulderlength, with the locks of hair pulled back by a ribbon into a tail – had necessitated that he shift the ever-present martial row of black hair back from his forehead. The result rendered him somehow less _alien_ , but more exotic. In his charcoal gray coat with the collar turned up, and the black tricorn hat tipped low casting shadows that partially concealed his almond-shaped eyes and winged brows, Spock looked like a robber baron or pirate.

Kirk watched as McCoy leaned forward and the surgeon's fingers snaked out to tap the side of the pewter mug. "At least pick it up and _pretend_."

"Bones," the starship captain said, changing the subject, "give me a rundown on Happer Clayworth's medical condition, with a special emphasis on why I was not notified of it _before_ he was assigned to the Enterprise to replace Lt. McGivers."

McCoy straightened up instantly. "You know how it is, Jim," the surgeon said without apology, "Happer's got relatives in high places."

"His uncle is Vice Admiral Fitzpatrick," Spock remarked cooly.

"That doesn't explain why a serious medical condition goes without note – "

"You have to understand, Jim," the surgeon insisted. "On the planet where Happer grew up, the condition that we term _bipolar_ is regarded as a gift from the gods. It isn't _seen_ as a medical condition. It's not so different from the time we are in now. Among the American Indians there was a belief that a person who had a developmental disibility was special and chosen by God for great things." Warming to his subject, McCoy leaned forward. "The depressive episodes Happer experiences are regarded as times of communion and meditation. The manic moments, bursts of genius."

"There is some validity to both claims." Spock shifted his eyes to Kirk's face. "Inward searching often produces profound wisdom, and madmen frequently possess a touch of genius."

"You ought to know," McCoy muttered under his breath.

"But such a condition would not have let Happer function outside of his birth society," Kirk protested. "It wouldn't have gotten him through the academy. How…"

"Medication." The surgeon picked up his tankard and took a sip. "It's been around for centuries. Allows people like Clayworth to function in other societies."

"Then what happened? Did he stop taking it?"

The surgeon nodded.

"The side effects of such treatments are understandably distressing, Captain," Spock remarked. "Agitation. Anxiety. Loss of libido and inability to have an – "

Kirk held up his hand. "I get the point, Spock. So how long do you think he's been off them?"

McCoy shook his head. "Hard to say. No one noticed any odd behavior – other than the usual."

Lt. Cmdr. Happer Clayworth was _quite_ a case. Historians on the whole were not Kirk's favorite people, and he saw no reason for a starship to have one. They had a tendency to wander off into romantic fantasies – as was proven by Lt. Marla McGivers when the _ideal_ of her 19th century man was realized in Kahn Noonien Singh. She betrayed both her ship and shipmates for him, and chose to go off with the would-be conqueror _not_ so gently into that good night. If Kirk had it his way, when they found Clayworth and returned to the future, he would ban all historians from his ship – _forever._

"So what do you think set him off?"

McCoy shrugged.

"I would suggest, Captain, that it was the chance to have access to the Guardian," Spock replied. "For a man of Clayworth's temperament – with his obvious cultural bias based on his fascination and idolazation of his English ancestors – the tempation to venture into the past and, perhaps, effect some change would be insuperable indeed."

Kirk leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his chin. First it had been O'Reilly with his belief that he descended of Irish kings, and then Checkov, who claimed Russians had invented everything from sliced bread to nuclear fission. Still, their claims were mostly crafted to get a rise out of their fellow crewmates. There was something different about Happer. He actually _could_ trace his line back through several English kings, and he never failed to let you know it. He was a smart man – even Spock said so – but Happer had struck him as extremely jingoistic from the start. His nationalistic pride was chauvanistic and seemed, to him, slightly paranoid. Kirk had hesitated to assign him to the landing party, but had been overruled after Happer complained to the Starfleet brass.

You'd think by the 23rd century nepotism would have gone the way of the plasma television and cell phone.

"So, somehow, Happer overcame the tight security and entered the Guardian, choosing late 18th century Earth as his destination. Why?"

"The catalyst of change offered by your American Revolution," Spock said simply.

"Why here in particular?"

One of the Vulcan's inky brows peaked. "You are asking, I assume, a rhetorical question?"

Was there a slight hint of a smile to those tight, greenish-tinged lips? Kirk laughed. "I do admit to something of a passion about the period."

"Obsession is more like it," McCoy grumbled.

How often had he subjected Bones to dissertations on his admiration for the men, especially the generals, who had forged their country? How many times had he walked him through the battles of the Revolution step by step? How often dreamed of being with Washington at the Delaware, or at Monmouth Courthouse, or Saratoga?

"Would you care to enlighten us, Captain?" Spock prompted like the good friend he was.

"It's September of 1777," Kirk began, "a tumultuous time for the rebels. Though there had been some victories, the arrival of 15,000 troops under General Howe in July – added to those already under Burgoyne and others – changed everything. By September George Washington was on the run, retreating with his army from the battle of Cooch's Bridge to Red Clay Creek near Newport, and then to the Brandywine. At the Battle of Brandywine the Continental army failed to prevent the British incursion that eventually led to the occupation of the captial city of Philadelphia." The captain shook his head. "The Congress ran like frightened rabbits."

"What day was the battle?" Bones asked.

Kirk thought a moment. "September 11th. And today is the 7th."

"So somewhere in the next four days, Happer's actions will change history. So what now?" The surgeon tipped his cup and noticed it was empty. He raised a hand to signal the barmaid. She had been head to head with a rather shady-looking character who scooted out the door as she answered their hail. A second later Spock sighed.

So the Vulcan _wasn't_ oblivious after all.

"Oh, come on Spock. The woman will die of desire if you keep her exiled much longer." Bones' grin was broad. "Just give her a little smack on the rump and you'll make her year."

Kirk glanced at the bar. It wasn't often a woman treated him as if he didn't exist. And the barmaid was _quite_ a woman – tall, slender, with coppery hair and a pair of blue eyes to challenge the vault of Heaven. The woman seemed slightly out of place in a local village tavern. He watched as she wended her way through the smoke-filled room, ignoring other raised hands, deliberately making for their table. When she got there she smiled at the doctor, but she had eyes _only_ for Spock.

"Can I get you gentlemen something?" she asked. Her voice was Irish and husky. Her walk sultry. And it was all lost on the stoic Vulcan who was intensely studying the grain of the battered table's surface just to the left of his untouched mug of ale.

"A refill, if you will, Mistress…." Bones waggled his eyebrows, inviting an answer.

"Maeve," she smiled. "Maeve McGinnnis."

Kirk struggled not to laugh. He knew the name. It meant 'intoxicating'. Maybe she'd have better luck thawing the Vulcan than the ale.

"And you, sir," Maeve said, addressing Spock in a lilting Irish tone, "is there something wrong with your drink? Would you like me to fetch you another?"

The Vulcan didn't squirm well. "No thank you, Mistress. I find I am not thirsty after all."

"Are you hungry then? I might be able to find _something_ to satisfy," she said, her meaning obvious.

Kirk stomped on McCoy's foot as the surgeon snickered.

"I require no sustenance," Spock replied flatly.

Maeve, whose chemise was laced so tightly her ample assets defined the term 'in your face', leaned in close and whispered something near the Vulcan's ear. Then she whirled and, catching McCoy's tankard in her hand, headed for the bar.

"So, what did she say? Spock?" McCoy's need to know had the surgeon panting like a dog. "What?"

The Vulcan turned and met the other man's anxious stare. "A gentleman never tells," he remarked deadpan as he scooted back his chair. "Captain, I find I am in need of fresh air. If you will excuse me."

The two men watched him depart, Kirk grinning and the doctor, open-mouthed. Seconds after Spock exited the tavern a woman brought McCoy's drink – it wasn't Maeve.

The buxom beauty had followed the Vulcan out the door.

McCoy slapped the table. "Why that sly old green-blooded devil!"

"Bones, keep your voice down." Kirk twisted to look at the door. What was Spock up to? Somehow he doubted it was an immoral assignation in spite of the surgeon's hopes.

"Are you just going to let him disappear like that? Don't you want to know?" Bones demanded.

Kirk scowled. "Well, with Spock, I can only assume there is a…logical reason."

McCoy picked up his ale and took a swig. He sat it down with gusto. "Well, the birds and the bees may not be Vulcan, but Spock can't deny that half of him is a _man_. Who knows what traveling through time can do to a man's psyche? God didn't mean for that to happen anymore than He invented the transporter."

The captain's frown deepened. Maybe he'd better go check. Maybe something _had_ happened to Spock when they stepped through the Guardian.

As he rose from his seat McCoy whispered, his tone laced with innuendo, "Whatever you do, knock first."

Kirk shot his friend a killing look and then headed for the door. As he drew near, it opened. At first he thought it was Spock, but then he realized the man actually looked nothing like his first officer and was _far_ too young. It was just the clothes. Whoever it was, he was tall and lean with brown hair and eyes, and wore a charcoal gray coat with black breeches and boots, and a black tricorn hat. Behind him came another similarly dressed man, almost as tall, with a pleasant face and a tousled head of honey-colored curls. Kirk could tell instantly that the second man was military by the way he held himself and by the way his eyes canvassed the interior of the tavern, eventually settling with apprehension on the party of British soldiers seated near its rear. If he had to guess, he would have taken the first for a person of some importance and the other man for his bodyguard.

Shifting out of the way, the starship captain let them pass. The older man took the elbow of the younger and began to steer him to the far side of the room. With a grin, the other man broke free. He leaned in close and whispered something that did not please the blond man and then deliberately sat at a table barely eight feet away from the soldiers. Kirk's eyes flicked to the older man's face and he recognized in it a kinship of exasperation.

Thinking of that, Kirk walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the night seeking his _own_ recalcitrant.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Sir, this is _most_ unwise," Robert breathed close to Lafayette's ear as he sat two tankards down in front of the Frenchman.

The young man raised his to his lips. "Where better to learn something?" he answered, careful to keep his voice pitched barely above a whisper.

Robert slipped into his chair. "Anywhere but _here_. What if they discern that you are French?"

Lafayette shrugged. "There is no law against a Frenchman being in Chester."

He did his best not to stare. "Redcoats need no law. They believe themselves to _be_ the law."

"Then we will give them no cause for alarm. We came to learn," he added with a mischievous grin, " _not_ to teach."

"Good God!" Robert sighed and downed a third of his ale.

They sat for some time, listening to the conversation of the nearby soldiers. Robert ordered two newspapers for them, so it would not seem odd that they were not talking. The tavern-keep kept a stock from the Philadelphia press as well as the local sheet. At first, there was nothing to hear. The soldiers had fought at the Battle of Bennington and were still stinging from the defeat. They wanted nothing more than a chance to seek revenge against General Washington's army. After a series of epithets and a long discourse about the dubious nature of His Excellency's lineage that included a few barnyard animals, the talk turned to why the soldiers were in Chester. Apparently they were a part of Howe's men on a course to rendezvous with the British general and his army at Kennett Square. This confirmed the previous intelligence that General Washington had received; that the British intended to make a stand in the near future at Chadd's Ford. It wasn't news but it was important. At least they would have something to take back to camp for their day in town.

Hoping this tidbit had satisfied the Frenchman's need to get _something_ on the British, Robert leaned in and said, "We should take this news back to camp."

Lafayette was frowning. Behind his newspaper, he raised a finger to his lips.

Robert tuned his ears toward the soldiers again and caught the end of it. "…tonight, at Red Clay Creek. With Howe headed for the square, that leaves Lord Cornwallis the field. Those rebels will be begging for mercy by morning."

Lafayette amazed him. The man was cool and calm. Every muscle in Robert's long frame had gone rigid. His chair scuffed back on the floor. They had to alert General Washington!

"Be at peace, _mon ami._ Eyes are watching."

A second later a rough callused hand, followed by a crimson coat sleeve decorated with a row of gold braid, steadied itself on the back of Robert's chair. Looking up, he noticed the man it belonged to was just as tough. The British soldier looked to be in his forties and had weathered many a campaign. He had grizzled brown hair and deeply tanned skin. His face was scarred and one eye puckered, as if the skin below it had been sewn together at one time. A cruel mouth quirked at one corner as though inflicting pain was his delight. "Must be something bloody interestin' on that sheet," the soldier growled with menace. "You been lookin' at it for nigh onto an hour."

His remark was directed toward Lafayette.

That was _not_ good.

"Sir," Robert began, clearing his throat, "my friend is not from around here and as such he doesn't –"

"I noticed." The soldier swung around the table until he stood at the marquis' side. Looking down at him, he cursed. "You're a bleedin' frog. Ain't you, _moan-ah-mee?"_

Robert swallowed hard as several more soldiers circled the table like vultures waiting to dine. The local patrons began to desert the tavern in anticipation of their feast.

"He's a friend of mine from university – "

The soldier snatched the paper away, leaving Lafayette's hands in the air. "Ain't your friend got a tongue?"

He shot the general a look but the ball missed.

" _Oui._ I have a tongue," the Frenchman answered. "Robert and I attended the University of Pennsylvania together. I have come for a visit."

"A town under martial British law ain't a safe place for a Frenchman, is it, Sergeant Barnes?" one of the other soldiers asked.

"Ain't _no_ place safe for a Frenchman," another laughed.

Lafayette, all innocence, asked politely, "Have I done something to offend you gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen?" Barnes barked a laugh. " _Gentlemen!_ You got us confused with someone else. _We_ ain't gentlemen." His pudgy fingers played with the handle of the pistol tucked behind his belt. "What we are is men what lost their brothers, sons, and friends to too many goddamned frogs in the last war."

"Obviously," the nineteen year old countered, "I could not have fought in that war."

"I bet your father did. I bet he did his _damnedest_ to kill every Englishman that crossed his path." Barnes lowered his voice. "Or did the frog turn tail and run and get shot in the back?"

Robert could sense it. The rage boiling up in the younger man. "Paul," he warned, using the name they had agreed on. "No…."

Lafayette's fingers were tense where they clutched the edge of the table; his knuckles bare-bone white. "You will take that back," he said, biting off every word.

Barnes grinned, showing a missing tooth. "Must of hit a nerve. The truth hurts, don't it?"

Balling his fingers into fists, the Frenchman rose from his chair, knocking it back and away from the table. "I will show you _what_ hurts," he warned, raising them before him.

"Paul! No. They're not worth – "

At that moment a most curious thing happened. A man – a complete stranger to him – stepped up to the table and caught up the paper lying on its top. He paused and then smiled at all of them as though they were engaged in nothing more than a friendly game of whist on a lazy evening in May.

"Pardon me, am I disturbing something?" the man asked.

There was an air about him of disheveled charm. His voice like his face was craggy, but softened by thinly veiled amusement. He had brown hair and was dressed like a lawyer or apothecary, and had the clearest, cleanest blue eyes Robert had ever seen. The man was probably in his forties as there were traces of gray at his temples.

The sergeant was staring at the stranger open-mouthed. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Me?" The man took the paper and placed it under his arm and then extended his hand. "Name's Leonard McCoy. And you might be?"

"Never mind the _bleedin' hell_ who I am!" Barnes snarled. "What do you think you're doin'?"

McCoy blinked, guileless. "Getting the paper?"

"I should throw you out on your ear!" the sergeant continued to rage.

The doctor's blue eyes flicked from one soldier to the other. "Is this official military business then? Have these men done something wrong?"

The question seemed to take a little of the wind out of Barnes' sails. "Well, no….."

"Other than being born," another sniped so low it was barely heard.

"Well, then." The man turned to Robert. "Perhaps you two gentlemen would care to join me at my table. I would be most happy for some company. My friends and I are new to town and I find myself rather at a loss." He turned to Lafayette. "What is your course of study at the university?"

Robert held his breath.

"The law," the general answered without missing a beat.

"Excellent. When my friend returns you and he can debate legalities until the cows come home."

Robert kept his eye on Barnes. The British soldier seemed to have lost his desire to drive the general into the ground like a peg. Stifling a sigh of relief, he thanked McCoy with both his eyes and words. "Thank you, Master McCoy. A most gracious offer. We would be most pleased to join you. Wouldn't we, Paul?"

Lafayette's eyes sparked with devilry. " _Oui."_

He _had_ to use French.

"If you will excuse us, Sergeant Barnes." Robert nodded to the soldiers as he rounded the table to take Lafayette by the elbow. "Gentlemen."

Barnes remained silent as they moved away, pressing through the now empty tables toward the back of the room. Then Robert heard a growl.

"I'll _excuse_ your frog to Hell!" the sergeant shouted.

As Robert pivoted on his heel, he caught a sense of movement – something dark and pointed flying across the room. Without a thought, he leapt in front of Lafayette who had moved ahead and had his back turned toward the British soldier.

And took the knife intended for the marquis.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Spock leaned against a fence rail affecting as nonchalant an attitude as his rigidly trained Vulcan muscles would allow. The human female had led him to the area of a stable not too far distant from the tavern, most likely the one where guests' horses were quartered. He had scanned enough late 18th Century Terran novels to formulate a theory as to what Maeve might anticipate as the expected outcome of such a clandestine encounter and, in spite of the good doctor's beliefs to the contrary, was enough of a gentlemen that his desire was not to hurt or humiliate her. He would not have come had her words not been so startling.

She had called him an 'enterprising man' and offered to 'give him what he wanted.'

While he was well aware of the obvious dual nature of her words, and the fact that the choice of phrase could have been effected merely as innuendo in the hopes of commencing sexual relations, he reasoned it was quite logical to accept her offer and see what came of it. There had been no time to inform the captain of either his purpose or his reasons, and barring the outcome of any small annoyance on Jim's part for taking action without orders, would prove well worth it – if only for the look his actions had engendered on Dr. McCoy's face.

Maeve had gone into the stable to see if it was 'safe', or so she said. Spock's left eyebrow peaked upon her return. Apparently it was not. Her appearance had altered considerably. Where before the tavern attendant had been quite neat and entirely kempt, she was now disheveled. Her auburn hair had come loose of its ribbons. Her crimson gown was unlaced and falling off one shoulder and there were traces of straw and other organic matter clinging to her now exposed white petticoats.

When she saw him looking, she smiled and crooked a finger.

The Vulcan pursed his lips. Perhaps a revision of his original theory was in order. He cleared his throat and straightened up. "Madame – "

"Maeve," she purred.

"Maeve. I regret…." He cleared his throat again. "I apologize if my actions led you to an erroneous conclusion. It is not my intention to engage in any sort of act of sexual procreation. In fact, such an action would prove extremely deleterious to you – perhaps even fatal."

The human female had frowned with concentration as he spoke. At his last statement, her eyes brightened and she smiled. "It's too late."

"Too late?"

Maeve sidled over to him and laid her hand on his chest. "Whatever you've done to me, it's already fatal. Tis dying, I am, to get to know you better." Her words were soft and spoken with a lilting Irish accent. The eyes focused on him were green as the virgin world about them. Spock shifted uncomfortably. Somehow, he didn't think that last term applied to the woman confronting him.

Taking her hand in his, he moved it away. "I am interested in information. You said you could give me 'what I wanted'."

"And what else could you be wanting but me?" she asked, pressing in closer.

Spock sidestepped, but didn't quite escape her. "Your mention of an 'enterprising' man. What did that signify?" he asked, seeking to place a watering trough between them. "Was there any reason for your particular choice of words?"

Maeve skirted the wooden structure and backed him up against the fence. "No more so than for my choice of _you_ ," she responded, her voice husky and, again, filled with hidden meaning.

"Of me?"

"Come into the stable and I'll give you what you want. There's too many eyes abroad in the night. Too many tongues to wag."

The study and interpretation of the female of the species – whether Vulcan or human – was not one of his strongest subjects. Subterfuge and duplicity were foreign to his nature when worked for personal gain. Spock's keen mind raced through the possible scenarios and arrived at the only logical conclusion – whether or not Maeve communicated anything of import to him, the worst that could happen was that he would insult her by refusing her attentions and she would retaliate by striking him across the face and then making some kind of a threat, most likely, that she would never speak to him again.

An eminently practical and entirely satisfying conclusion to the episode as far as he was concerned.

"Very well," he replied at last.

She held out her hand and waited.

"You may proceed," he said.

Maeve's fingers wiggled.

Stifling a feeling of frustration that arose from somewhere deep within his buried human half, Spock permitted himself a sigh. Then he took her hand and let her lead him toward the stable door.

As they entered the damp, dark area that smelled of hay matted with excrement and watered with urine, his Vulcan ears twitched at a familiar sound. The captain had left the tavern across the street and was seeking him, calling out his name. Not surprisingly there was a note of annoyance in Jim's tone. Spock considered turning back, but decided against that course of action as the entire progression of events from the time he had left the inn until now was about to come to fruition.

Maeve led him around a stall wall and stopped, allowing him to proceed into it. There was an area of clean straw matted down, topped with a somewhat worn woolen blanket. Suddenly keenly aware that Jim Kirk would have known precisely how to graciously extricate himself from this situation – and probably had a thousand times – Spock turned back, intending to do his best to imitate his commander.

Only to find himself on the firing end of a Starfleet issued regulation phaser.

"I told you I'd give you what you want," the Irishwoman remarked as her finger moved and the weapon began to build toward an energy discharge. "Now, darlin', sleep with the angels. When you wake, I'll keep my word."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

After calling Spock's name twice, James T. Kirk halted just outside the tavern and looked left and right. The building that served as both local watering hole and inn was situated on one of the main streets of the village of Chester. As it was near noon, the town was fully awake now and the avenue filled with passersby, wagons, and even a few carriages. A pair of British soldiers paraded the street, stopping the occasional disgruntled citizen to question them. There were a great variety of animals wandering about loose, including a cadre of grunting pigs rooting through the garbage on the street. They seemed to serve the same purpose as a squad of sanitation robots. But there was no Spock. Kirk frowned. It had been unlike his first officer to go off without a word, though he couldn't have blamed the Vulcan if he had really felt a need for fresh air. As much as he loved Bones McCoy, the surgeon _could_ try one's patience from time to time. Still, what Bones had dished out tonight had been mild in comparison to other days, so he doubted that was it. Whatever the lusty Maeve had whispered in Spock's ear must have been worth investigating.

But where _were_ they?

Turning in a circle, Kirk examined the grounds surrounding the tavern. There were several houses and what appeared to be a shop of some kind nearby, as well as a carriage house with an attached stable that sat across from the property. The captain suppressed a grin at his next thought. If _he_ had been looking for a place to hold an amorous assignation, a nice stable replete with hay would be just the ticket. After tipping his hat to a pair of older white-capped women who walked by, the starship captain moved across the narrow street toward the wooden building. He halted just outside the stable door. It was slightly ajar. What was it Bones had told him? Be sure to knock?

Leaning slightly into the opening he called softly, "Spock? Are you in there? Spock?"

As the door opened inward abruptly, Kirk jumped back. The copper-haired beauty from the tavern halted within its frame, staring at him. She held a pair of saddlebags in her arms and was the picture of propriety, with the exception of a good amount of straw clinging to her crimson skirts and a few stalks of it in her red hair.

"Sir," she asked, "may I help you?"

"I'm looking for my friend," he answered, as casually as his unease would allow him. "I assumed he was with you."

She looked puzzled. Then her lips lit with a rueful smile. "The…gentleman in question was not interested. He said there was a matter of urgency pressing and he took his leave shortly after departing the inn." Kirk's look must have been skeptical. Maeve answered it with a frown. "Is it lying you think I am, then?"

"No, mistress. It's just that I'm worried about him. It's not like him to take off without letting me know where he's going."

"Is he a grown man then, or a child that you need to be about his business?" she asked, her lips quirking.

"To be honest?" he answered with one of his most winning smiles. "A bit of both."

Maeve's green eyes narrowed and lit with some inexplicable emotion. "You care a great deal about him." It was a statement of fact.

"He's my friend," he said, as if that said it all. Kirk stared at her for a moment longer and then asked, smiling again. "You mind if I take a look inside?"

"Minding your step is what you should be about in there," she said as she pushed past him. "Now if you'll pardon me, Master…."

He hesitated. Finally, he used his real name as it was common enough. "Kirk. Jim Kirk."

"Master Kirk. Old man McCree'll be wanting his things." She indicated the saddlebags. "He's a fine man to give a girl an extra shilling…if she's _willing_." Maeve laughed at her own joke and then tossed a soft 'fare thee well' over her shoulder as she headed back to the inn.

Kirk watched her go and then turned sharply on his heel and entered the stable. The stench was strong. He was so used to a sanitized world that the raw nature of Colonial America took a bit of getting used to. Once inside he made a quick survey of the tackle and feed rooms and then began to look into each and every stall. Something gnawed at him. He didn't know what, but he had a hunch that Spock had been here and that Maeve, whoever she was, was not telling him the entire truth. Still, there was nothing to see. Most of the stalls either held horses or were empty. One was being used for storage and another was piled high with hay. A tip of a ragged blanket showed at one edge of the yellow stuff. Kirk's lips twisted and he pulled at them, thinking. Where would Spock have gone, and why? Had Maeve tipped him off to something important, maybe Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth's position?

If so, why would the Vulcan have gone alone?

Crossing to the stall that held the crates, Kirk was just about to sit down on one so he could puzzle it out further, when a sharp voice called out his name.

"Jim! Jim Kirk! Damn it man, where are you? Jim!"

No visual was necessary. Rising to his feet, he headed for the door. "Here, Bones! In the stable."

A figure occluded the light coming in. A second later Leonard McCoy stepped into the open room.

His waistcoat was covered in blood.

"Bones! What happened?" Kirk demanded.

The surgeon looked down, following his gaze. "It's not mine, Jim. But we've got an emergency on our hands." McCoy hesitated, glancing behind him. "Where's Spock?"

Kirk shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"What? He's vanished?" Bones hesitated. "With a _woman?_ "

"Maeve's still here. You should have passed her on your way out of the tavern."

The surgeon shook his head. "That's not a woman I would forget, Jim. I didn't see her."

The starship captain's frown deepened. He started to push past McCoy. "We need to find her."

"Later, Jim. There's a man who's been stabbed. I need to take care of him."

"Bones. No _interference_ , remember? We're in the past." He kept his voice low. "Maybe the man is intended to die."

"Well, Jim…." The surgeon looked chagrinned. Like Spock's left eyebrow, McCoy's right cheek always gave him away by twitching. "I think he may have been injured because of me. I sort of stumbled into an altercation between a group of redcoats and – "

" _Stumbled?"_

McCoy winced. "Stumbled on _purpose?_ "

Another eclipse fell across the stable's entryway. " _Messier?_ " a light cultured voice called. "Time is of the essence."

"I have to go, Jim. Until I know it has to happen, I can't let a man die."

Kirk nodded. "I know." He glanced back at the empty stable. "But I've got a _bad_ feeling about this…."

Bones hand fell on his shoulder. "You know Spock. You can't keep a good Vulcan down. He'll turn up."

The starship captain met his friend's ice blue stare. It was true. Spock would turn up.

He just hoped it wasn't dead.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeremy Larkin had returned to his home for a change of clothes. He was grateful to find his father missing. A note the older man had hastily penned informed him that he had been called to a meeting of the town elders; something to do with the current British occupation. The rebel leader scowled as he read it. The violations of the citizens of Chester's rights were escalating at a rapid pace, as if everything that had happened so far was only a prelude to what was to come. There was an electricity in the air and Jeremy feared it portended a lightning strike of such a destructive nature that the Cause might well not recover.

He shook himself and put off his womanly fears. Even now Isak and Henry were preparing the apothecary's creations – the canisters, powder, and wire – that they would use to hold back the British soldiers should the need arise. That was why he was here obtaining a different coat; one of a dark color that would blend in and be suited for fight and _flight_ at night. Their intelligence told them that General Howe intended to move tonight, if not for the final battle, then at least to do what damage he could. They had to take action as if it was true. The fortunes of war were seldom predictable. Victory and defeat both were harsh mistresses, and the toll they exacted for their favors, often a heavy one.

Jeremy replaced the note on the tabletop where he had found it and then rounded the stair and began to take the steps two at a time. As he reached the top, he heard the door open. Pausing, he listened, thinking it must be his father. But then he realized it was not. It was Robert and he was calling his name.

The weakness in his older brother's voice was chilling.

Jeremy retraced his steps to the landing only to be halted by the scene that greeted him. Robert was being lowered into a seat by the fire. A stranger knelt beside him. The man was digging in a cloth bag he carried as if searching for something of great importance. Two other men – strangers as well – stood just inside the door.

"Jeremy," Robert breathed again, reaching out to him.

His brother's words spurred him into action. Taking the last two steps as one Jeremy raced to his side. "Robert, what is – "

Only then did he see the blood.

The man with the bag looked up at him. He was older, with grizzled brown hair and a face worn with care. "The wound is in his back. I need to take him somewhere where I can tend it. Is there a downstairs bedroom?"

Jeremy shook his head. "No."

The older man frowned. "We'll have to risk taking him upstairs then. Jim, give me a hand."

One of the men by the door started in reaction to the name. He had golden hair, about the shade of Robert's, but cut closer to his head. His was the face of a man of action. A pair of deep hazel eyes, sharp as a hawk's talons, fastened on Jeremy and sized him up with one look. A second later they dismissed him as a threat.

"You're the brother?" he asked as he moved to the older man's side.

"Aye. What happened? How was Robert injured?"

The third member of the strangers' party had been keeping watch at the door. He closed it and moved into the room, coming to a rest directly before him. "I am afraid it is my fault," he said, his voice breaking with anguish. " _Je suis l'enfant terrible_."

"You…you're French," Jeremy stuttered.

" _Oui_."

"His name…is Paul…du Motier," Robert rasped. "A friend from…the…university."

Jeremy didn't remember his brother ever mentioning anyone named Paul, let _alone_ a Frenchman.

"I don't care if he's King Louis," the older man growled. "I need someone to help me get this man upstairs."

The man with the sharp eyes shrugged. "Sorry, Bones." And before Jeremy could make a move, the stranger had slipped his arm around Robert's waist and was assisting him up the stairs.

"How bad is it?" he called after the older man.

"I'll let you know when I do," came the gruff reply.

For a moment Jeremy found himself unable to move. Robert was the strong one. He was always there, so sure of himself and of their combined destiny. It had never occurred to him until now that he could lose him.

" _Pardonnez moi, mon ami_ ," a soft voice spoke from close behind him.

Jeremy turned on the Frenchman and all of his worry flashed in a burst of anger. "I don't recall Robert ever mentioning having a friend who was French. Who are you? And what danger have you brought to my brother? You said this was your fault?"

The young man was stunned and slightly dazed – and pale, though Jeremy thought that might be by nature. His hair and eyes were both brown as chocolate. The Frenchman's features were refined, his manner and elocution, elegant, and he seemed _very_ out of place in Chester, Pennsylvania.

He was also _extremely_ repentant. " _Oui._ I am to blame. I lost my temper and your brother paid the price."

"Lost your temper?"

"In the tavern. I was baited by a group of British soldiers and, like a child, was not man enough to ignore their insults." The young man's nostrils flared with disgust at his own weakness. "They are right. I am not fit to com – " He stopped, as if thinking better of what he had been about to say. "I am not fit to commune with _le porc_."

Jeremy thought a moment. "To commune with pigs?"

Paul's grin was dimpled as well as chagrinned. He shrugged. "It is, how do you say it, an _expression_ from my country?"

The Frenchman's earnest regret was a calming balm to his nerves. Jeremy drew a breath and released it in a sigh. "Forgive me, sir. I supposed, in my anger, that Robert had no say in what happened." It was his turn to grin. "Knowing my brother, that is _not_ the case."

" _Non_. I would gladly trade places with him."

"And why is that, sir?"

Paul sighed. "The knife was intended for me."


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Who was this man, Jeremy wondered, that his brother would be willing to give his life for him? There was a story here as of yet untold. One he intended to unravel.

Maybe if he could speak to Robert….

At that moment, there was a sharp rap on the door that startled both of them so they jumped in tandem. A wild look entered the Frenchman's eyes, but was squelched in a second. Still, he placed his hand on his pistol as if in preparation for a fight, even as he fell back from the door into the shadows.

Jeremy stared at him for a moment, and then went to answer it.

It was Isak and Henry.

Good God! He had forgotten about their rendezvous.

"Jeremy," Henry began, "is everything all right?"

"We missed you at the tavern," the black man said. "If we mean to do this thing tonight, we must…."

Isak's voice trailed off as Jeremy shook his head. "Robert has been hurt," he said without preamble.

"Is he here?" Henry asked. "Can I be of any assistance?"

"I don't know," Jeremy answered as he stepped into the room and gestured to them to enter. "There is a man with him. I don't know who he is, but he seems to know something of medicine."

"His name is McCoy. He is _un médicin_. Forgive me, a doctor," the Frenchman said as he stepped out of the shadows.

As one Isak and Henry's heads turned toward him. "This is Paul du Motier, a friend of Robert's from the university," Jeremy explained. "He was…with Robert when he was injured."

"The two men who accompanied me are from the navy," Paul explained. "A ship captain and his surgeon. I believe your brother is in good hands." This last he aimed at Jeremy.

The fact relieved him somewhat.

"Jeremy," Isak began, hedging, "about tonight…."

He shook his head. "I dare not leave until I know Robert will recover. You will have to…attend the party without me."

"It won't be the same without you," Henry insisted. "Perhaps you could join us later?"

"Perhaps."

"It promises to be a rousing evening," the black man added. "I've heard there may be fireworks."

Jeremy glanced at Paul. The Frenchman was following their conversation with interest, as though not fooled by their subterfuge. Still, there was no reason for him to suppose they were speaking of anything other than a night's entertainment.

Was there?

The sound of footsteps on the stair made them turn. It was the blond man with the sharp eyes; the navy captain, if Paul was correct.

"Sir," Jeremy asked, "how is my brother?"

"Weak from loss of blood, but Bones…Dr. McCoy says he will make a full recovery." The blond man smiled. "Still, he'll be off his feet for a day or two."

"Thank providence your friend was in attendance," Henry remarked. "Is he a schooled physician?"

"McCoy? Yes. He knows what he's doing." As he spoke, the navy captain's eyes flicked to the door and a frown overtook the smile.

"Sir, is something wrong?"

The blond man looked at him sharply. Then he forced another grin. "I don't seem to have caught your name, young man, or to have given you mine. Captain James T. Kirk," he said, holding out his hand.

Jeremy took it. "Jeremy Larkin."

"Good to meet you, Jeremy."

"And these are my friends, Henry Abington, and Isak Poole."

Kirk took each of their hands in turn. Jeremy noted that nothing in the navy captain's demeanor indicated he thought any less of Isak than anyone else. It was a fact that moved the man up in his estimation.

"Pleased to meet you," Kirk said as his eyes returned to the door.

"Is something wrong, James?" Henry asked.

"Jim. Call me, Jim. And yes, there is something wrong. I came to town with _two_ friends and seem to have ended up with only one. When your brother was injured, I had to stop searching." Kirk rubbed one hand with the other. "I'm worried about him."

"Where did he go missing?"

"He left the tavern that's down by the water."

"The one run by old man Morris?" Isak asked sharply.

Kirk was instantly alert. "Yes. Does that mean something?"

"Probably not," Jeremy replied. "Though the British have been known to 'recruit' strangers for their ships there from time to time."

Kirk frowned. "Impress them, you mean?"

"I see you have heard of the scurrilous practice," Henry growled. "Was your friend in health, and strong in limb?"

"Spock? Oh, yes…. But I seriously doubt any crimper could get the drop on him. No, I think this was something else. I think this had to do with that woman."

"What woman?"

Kirk waved his hand impatiently. "Tall. Red haired. Works at the tavern. May? Mary?"

"Maeve?" Jeremy asked.

"That's it! Do you know where I can find her?"

"Oh, _everyone_ knows where you can find Maeve," Isak answered with a sly grin. "She runs a nunnery."

"A nunnery?" the navy captain's frown deepened. "I didn't know there were any nunneries in rural Pennsylvania. Is there a strong Catholic influence here in Chester? From what I read…remembered, this area was a mix of Protestant religions"

The black man's face sobered. "It's hard to imagine a navy man who hasn't been to a nunnery."

"Where I come from it is called _le_ _maison de tolérance_ ," the Frenchman said, speaking after a long silence _._ "Perhaps James knows it by another name as well. I believe the common term is a brothel."

"She's a _madam?_ " Kirk exclaimed. "Then what was she doing working in the tavern?"

"Where better to find clients?" Henry replied. He hesitated and then added, "Perhaps your friend was looking for…."

"No. _No_." Kirk said it so emphatically that Jeremy didn't doubt him. "Not Spock. Something has happened. If that woman has harmed him in any way – "

" _Mon ami_ ," Paul began, "you and your friend have aided me. Now, I must aid you in return. Let us go seek this woman and see if we cannot convinceher to tell us what has become of your friend."

Jeremy sought Jim's gaze. "Is my brother truly out of danger?"

"Yes, unless infection sets in, but Bones has…ways of keeping that from happening."

"Herbs, no doubt," Henry chimed in.

"Then I will go with you as well. Henry, you and Isak must go to the party without me. Once we return, I will check in on Robert and, if he is holding his own, I will join you – if I can."

"You don't have to do that," Kirk replied.

"I insist. It will allow me to discharge my debt to you," the rebel leader insisted. "And I believe you are a man who understands how heavily a debt not discharged can weigh on a man."

"All right. Thank you." With that, the navy captain headed for the door. "I'll wait outside."

"I will bid fare well to Robert and then join you."

Kirk nodded and, with Paul following close behind, exited the house.

Jeremy stared after them, both puzzled and concerned. There was more afoot this night than General Howe's army.

And he was determined to find out what it was.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock's eyes snapped open. For a moment, he was completely disoriented. His hands and feet were bound and he was lying on his back in a dark, cramped space that smelled of animals. The Vulcan closed his eyes and sought to sort through the jumble of images that presented themselves to his waking mind: his first realization that Lt. Cmdr. Happer Clayworth was absent from the landing party on the Guardian's world. The discovery of Happer's assistant, Ensign Sim's, dead body behind an outcropping of rock. The fact that several phasers, as well as other equipment, were missing from a storage locker. A flash, like lightning, as the wayward historian stepped through the Guardian into time, quickly followed by the realization that everything had changed and that, once again, they were going to have to make it right. His fear – yes, _fear_ – that this event might force him to cause Jim Kirk pain again. And then their arrival. Chester, Pennsylvania, September 1777. The stolen clothes and obligatory disguise. The scene at the inn. The stable.

Maeve McGinnis.

An 18th century woman with a phaser.

Spock ran a quick check of his system. He was unharmed and, fortunately, still wore the uncomfortable wig that covered his telltale ears. He stifled a groan as he lifted his head in a futile attempt to survey the room. The last time he had been hit by phaser fire it had only been a glancing blow, delivered by Captain Tracey of the Exeter on Omega IV in an attempt to keep him from contacting the Enterprise. The blast from Maeve's weapon had struck him full force driving him to his knees, and then to oblivion. The weapon had been set on heavy stun. At such close proximity, the odds were high that it would have caused permanent damage to a human.

Considering the time period he and his companions currently occupied, and the circumstances that had brought them here, it did not take one of James Kirk's intuitive leaps to determine just _who_ that individual was. Simple logic would suffice.

He was the prisoner of the historian, Happer Clayworth.

As Spock waited for the effects of the stun to clear, his eidetic memory retraced the steps that had brought him to this unknown place. Upon entering the tavern he had become aware of a number of interesting individuals and two in particular: an older man who seemed to be the owner of the establishment and a young man of a military mien dressed in black who was acting in a clandestine manner. Both men interacted with Maeve before she turned her attentions to him. Examining the evidence after the fact, it became clear that she had been in league with at least one of them and that the man, whichever it proved to be, _must_ be in league with Happer Clayworth. Clayworth had come through the Guardian's portal alone, so whoever it was that aided him belonged to _this_ century. The phaser in Maeve's hand meant that the Prime Directive had been violated and, most likely, would be so again. His own interaction with Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth had been limited, but it had been clear that the man was unbalanced, so such a development was not to be unexpected. Spock scowled as he tried the ropes that bound his wrists without success. Of course, _most_ humans seemed unbalanced to him. Still, he berated himself now for not noticing that Clayworth's eccentricities went beyond the norm.

The sound of fabric brushing up against wood alerted him to the presence of someone moving outside of the room in which he was confined. Seconds later his suspicions were confirmed when a key entered the lock and an inner mechanism in the door clicked into place, allowing it to open. The door creaked slowly in as an unshuttered lantern was thrust into the space.

Spock closed his eyes before whoever it was could see he was awake and deliberately slowed his breathing, feigning continued unconsciousness. He remained completely still as a shadow fell across his supine form.

"He don't look so dangerous," a low, grating voice snarled. "Looks like a leeward breeze'd blow him away."

"Looks can be deceiving, Rowland," a feminine voice he recognized as Maeve's replied. "You saw him earlier in the tavern. You'd better be believing me, this one bears watching."

"Ain't been one taken yet could best me," another male voice boasted. "I'd like to see him try!" Both men were English and of a type that Doctor McCoy, in his quaint but articulate manner, would have classed as _stupid brutes_.

"Tis fortunate he's still unconscious," Maeve commented with a sigh. "We don't need any trouble." Her voice had passed from exasperated to stern. She spoke as if with some authority. "Get him into the wagon. The ship leaves with tonight's tide. I want him on it."

"The boss ain't gonna like it," Rowland warned.

"I'm being the boss here," the Irish woman responded. "You two will get your cut just like always. This one is prime merchandise. He should bring a _prime_ price."

Listening to them, Spock found himself reassessing his earlier appraisal of the situation. It sounded as if the purpose for which he had been taken had nothing to do with Happer Clayworth. Still, Maeve had a phaser in her possession, so the renegade Starfleet officer _had_ to have been in contact with her.

Was he, perhaps, witnessing a betrayal of some kind?

"Now, show me that all your muscle isn't in your tongues," Maeve goaded. "Shoulder him, Christopher. Rowland, you keep him covered. I'll go outside and make certain the way is clear. Then, I have to get back."

Spock listened as the woman's staccato footsteps beat a determined path to the door. Circumstances suggested he was still in the stable located across the street from the inn, and that Maeve intended – for whatever reason – to have him transported to the docks. From the quick survey he had done of the Guardian's images before he, Dr. McCoy, and Captain Kirk had followed Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth through the time portal, he had been able to access several documents describing ancient Chester and its layout. The village had a workable harbor. Small packet ships regularly provided service between it and London. The channel near the town was deep and wide enough to allow vessels to tack and maneuver so they did not have to be towed. This, obviously, was where Maeve intended to take him.

Spock considered his options. As Maeve had left the area, most likely so had the phaser she carried. One of the men was armed, but the odds were high that it was with a standard percussion type weapon or a knife or cudgel. While a projectile fired at close range from what had been known as a flintlock pistol could inflict considerable physical damage, the other two weapons posed no difficulty in overcoming. Still, if he made his move here, even though he gained his freedom, he would still be trapped in whatever structure Maeve had housed him in. The odds were high that he would be retaken. However, if he waited until they reached the dock the odds increased exponentially in his favor that he would make good his escape.

Acceptable.

A pair of sandpaper hands grasped his arms and lifted him up. Christopher grunted as he hefted him, no doubt surprised by the density of his Vulcan muscle. None too gently Spock was tossed over the man's shoulder and carried to the door. On a signal from Maeve, he was unceremoniously dumped into the back of an open wagon and covered with a heavy canvas tarp reeking of brine and patently dead fish. From beneath a fringe of ebon eyelashes he watched her watching him, a curious look on her face. Then she moved. Her hand reached into the pocket she wore at her waist. There was a flash of light and a familiar whine.

And oblivion.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeremy stepped back to allow a wagon to pass by. He had been speaking to James Kirk, trying to pull from the stubborn navy captain something of the circumstances in which he and his party had arrived in Chester. Not many were forthcoming. Kirk did not say where they hailed from. Neither did he admit to any destination. He did offer a description of his missing comrade which, unfortunately, fit a good many men in Chester. Master Spock was tall, lean, lightly tan of complexion, with raven-black hair and deep, near-black eyes. He wore a charcoal coat, black breeches, and boots. Kirk did mention that his friend was only half white; the other half being of an Oriental persuasion. This alone would make him stand out from others. Jeremy hoped the missing man had not run afoul of some of Chester's more disorderly persons. It had not been all that long ago that a man had been killed on the wharf simply for being half-caste. Seamen were a rough lot, with their own code of somewhat spurious rules.

Growing frustrated with Captain Kirk's vague answers, Jeremy had turned and stepped into the street without making certain it was clear. The wagon had missed him by a margin of no more than two feet. As it pulled away, spewing dust, the driver let loose a series of curses that still lingered in the air. Among other things, the man labeled him as a bully fop and the worst kind of idiot.

"Jeremy, are you all right?" Paul asked as he drew alongside him.

As he nodded in response, Captain Kirk stared thoughtfully after the vehicle and its reckless driver. "Where's the fire?" he muttered under his breath.

Dusting off his coat, the rebel leader turned toward the stranger. "By the stench, I would say at the docks." He shrugged his shoulders. "Seamen are notoriously contemptuous of those of us who walk on the land. Present company excluded, I am sure."

Kirk nodded, and then his hazel eyes narrowed. "I hope that's all it is."

"Why would you suppose anything else?" the Frenchman asked.

"I have a facility for…" The navy captain hesitated. "Mr. Spock calls them intuitive leaps. I think the term you might use is a hunch."

"And your hunches are usually right?" Jeremy asked.

Kirk's grin was determined, and just a little bit grim. "Usually."

The rebel leader gazed down the street. The wagon had faded from view, though the dust its speeding wheels had kicked up was still evident. "And you think that wagoneer had something to do with your friend's disappearance?"

James Kirk nodded. "There's something I want to check out. Something I noticed before in the stable, but didn't have time to follow through on."

Together they completed crossing the street and entered the facility Morris' tavern used for quartering its guests' animals. The navy captain made a bee's line to the back and turned into one of the stalls. Jeremy followed close after him, wondering what it was he had seen. When he entered the stall, he found Kirk rooting through the hay. A worn woolen blanket lay near his feet, neatly folded.

"When I was in here before, that blanket was _under_ the straw," he said, tossing piles of the yellow stuff aside. "There was only a corner peaking out. I wondered then why it was – " Kirk suddenly fell silent.

" _Qu'est_ …." Paul breathed.

"What is it?" Jeremy echoed.

The navy captain turned. He was holding an unflapped black tricorn hat in his hands.

" _Damn!"_ Kirk cursed. "Spock _was_ here all along."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Dr. Leonard McCoy stood at the window staring out into the growing night. The day was waning and both Jim Kirk and Spock were out there _somewhere._ How often had his oath as a physician prevented him from joining his friends in danger? How many times had he been forced to remain behind to care for someone who was injured? So far, his absence had not made a difference. Both Jim and Spock always came back. But he knew _one_ day it would be different. One day one of them was going to die and he was going to curse himself to eternity that he had not _been_ there to do something to stop it.

"Doctor…."

McCoy whirled to find Robert Larkin awake and attempting to rise. He crossed quickly to the bed and held the young man down. "Whoa, son. You're not going anywhere."

It wasn't really much of a struggle. Robert was pallid and profusely sweating from the brief effort. "I have to go – "

"No, you don't. Not for a while." The surgeon smiled and turned on his best bedside charm. "You listen to your good old country doctor and it will be one day. Fight him, and it might be _three_."

Robert's eyes darted about the room. Finding it empty, he fought to sit up again. "Where is the mar – " He paused, swallowed, and went on. "Where is Paul?"

"He's with Jim and someone named Jeremy," McCoy answered as he gently pushed back. "Now calm down or you'll start bleeding again."

" _Jeremy?_ What the devil is he doing with Jeremy?" The young man's words carried such astonishment it made McCoy stop what he was doing to look at him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No. Not really." As Robert fell back to the bed a slow smile spread across his handsome face. "I suppose the only trouble he could get into with Jeremy wouldn't matter much to anyone but Paul's wife." The blond man lay still for a moment as if thinking it through. Then he asked, "Who is Jim?"

"A kindred spirit, it seems," McCoy mused almost to himself.

"To Paul or Jeremy?"

"Jeremy," the surgeon laughed as he reached for a roll of fresh bandages. "Jim Kirk's got a way with the ladies. He loves them and leaves them – smiling _and_ thanking him for it." Placing the bandages in the cloth bag he carried, McCoy added, "James T. Kirk is my captain. I'm a…ship's surgeon."

"Navy men, then."

"Yes." It wasn't quite a lie. They just sailed a different _kind_ of sea.

Robert Larkin fell silent and remained so for a few minutes while McCoy moved about the room gathering his things. As soon as he could, he intended to follow after Jim. If Spock had been injured there would _certainly_ be no one in this time to care for him. With that green blood of his, they would as soon hang him as a witch or warlock or whatever they would call it.

As he closed his bag again, Robert said, "I _must_ go, you know."

McCoy pivoted. "You certainly must _not_."

"Doctor McCoy, you are a military man. You know, no matter whether a man is injured or not, there is still his duty." Robert shifted so he rested on one arm. "You must let me go do mine."

Yes, he knew. He'd argued with both Jim and Spock about it – and lost – often enough. "You'll reopen the wound."

"Then it reopens." The blond man's tone was entirely in earnest. "If I must die, then I die."

"What's so important you'd risk your life for it?" the surgeon snapped.

"I have intelligence that must be taken to General Washington's army concerning the movement of General's Howe's troops and his intended plans. Matters are coming to a head. Tonight. Tomorrow. The next day. One of them will see us at war."

McCoy scowled, thinking back to the tavern and the scene with the redcoats. "You and Paul deliberately bated those redcoats."

Robert laughed weakly. "Oh, no. _That_ was not deliberate. My…friend is used to having things his own way. When he gave me an order, there was nothing I could do but follow."

The surgeon frowned. "That young pup is your _superior_ officer? He can't be a day over nineteen – if that."

His patient paled. "I would be pleased if you would forget I said that doctor."

"Why? Who is…." McCoy's grizzled brows shot toward the ceiling. "Wait. He's French. Good God, man, you don't mean that _teenager_ is General Lafayette!"

Robert had shifted into a sitting position. "Doctor McCoy," he panted, "how do you know that?"

"Yes, Doctor, I would like to know that as well," a snide voice interjected even as the door to the bedroom swung in.

Revealing a British major in full military splendor.

"Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen," the officer said as he stepped into the room. "Major Fletcher Tarleton of His Majesty's Royal army." Moving with arrogant surety Tarleton came to the side of the bed and looked down at Robert. "My men informed me of the altercation in the tavern. I apologize for their beastly behavior. While it is quite acceptable to kill a Frenchman on the battlefield, it is decidedly bad form to knife one in the back. Still, it was not _all_ for naught." He leaned in close. "It seems we have discovered a nest of rebel vipers in the Larkin household. You, sir, are apparently a part of that scoundrel Washington's army. And you," he looked at McCoy, "a rebel surgeon. And somewhere in this town it seems we have quite a prize. Washington's adopted _frog,_ Lafayette." Tarleton reached out and grabbed Robert's shirt and savagely hauled him to his feet. "You will tell me where he is!"

Robert winced with pain and remained silent.

McCoy couldn't help it. He started forward to break them apart. "He's injured, damn it, man! You'll reopen the wound if you – "

A look from Tarleton stopped him. "Quite true, Doctor. And I intend to open several more." The words were hissed with the venom of a snake. "Mr. Larkin, here – "

" _Captain_ Larkin," Robert corrected defiantly.

"The good _captain_ will answer my question or he will bleed a great deal more than he already has."

"You'll get nothing from me!" Robert spat.

Tarleton's eyes flicked to McCoy. "Or from you, I suppose. Oh dear." He released Robert's shirt. The wounded man fell, breathing hard, back to the bed. "You rebels are such a bore. I think, though, that there is someone who can be made to talk." The British major walked to the door. "Of course, if _he_ doesn't have the information I need – and no one else offers it…. Well, your father is an old man and due to die soon anyway."

Without preamble, Robert Larkin exploded from the bed. "You _villain!_ " he shouted as he went for the major's throat. Tarleton simply stepped aside and allowed the blond man's momentum to carry him into the wall. Robert fell, stunned, and lay panting on the floor.

"And what of you, Doctor? Do you plan on any histrionics?"

McCoy's back was rigid with anger. "Allow me to treat him."

Tarleton glanced at Robert. A sneer curled one lip. "Certainly, Doctor. We wouldn't want Captain Larkin dying before he can be executed."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Maeve McGinnis halted outside one of the guest rooms in old man Morris's inn. She was playing a dangerous game and she knew it. But then, that was all she had done since she was eleven years old and had been forced to sell herself to feed her six brothers and sisters. They had come to the American colonies with their parents, but both had been taken in one of the frequent fevers that swept through Philadelphia. As the oldest she had had to provide, no matter what it took. Twelve years had passed since then and her looks and…talents…had allowed her to advance to a place where she no longer had to work, but could sit back and enjoy the benefits of _other's_ labors. She had a stable of half a dozen girls, all clean, all from middling to upper class homes. They serviced the lawyers and doctors and diplomats who came and went on the packet ships traveling to and from London. It was a good living. A stable one.

In a word, boring.

Maeve craved excitement. She delighted in living on the edge. It was this need that had drawn her into the crimpers' trade even more than the money. She kept an eye out during her shift at the bar for likely candidates. The British navy paid handsomely for men who were healthy and able. Most of their seamen were culled from the lowest ranks; scoundrels, drunks and reprobates that nobody wanted and no one would miss. She steered clear of those. The thrill of the hunt was to snatch an important man out from under his companions' noses, to spirit him away – and to _get_ away with it.

With this new weapon that Happer had supplied her with, it was going to be _that_ much easier.

Happer Clayworth was dangerous too and that was what attracted her to him. He had a way about him. One minute he would be kissing her, and the next he would drive her away. Seconds later his arms would be about her and they would make love. Happer had appeared one day from out of nowhere, talking nonsense that somehow _made_ sense about stopping this bloody war. It was wrong, he said, and she agreed. The trade was fine with things as they were. English men were some of the tavern's best customers and, since the conflict had started, they were dwindling away. She had no desire to see them replaced with pious New England farmers who were faithful to their wives.

Maeve reached into the basket hoop beneath her skirt and pulled out the strange pistol. Standing there in the hall, she stared at it. Happer had not actually supplied her with it. She had stolen it while he slept. He had several and kept them locked up in a trunk. Of course, life had taught her to pick locks as well, a talent she had _not_ shared with him. She didn't understand how the weapon worked, but one blast from it and a man crumpled and slept like a babe for hours. There was a wheel of sorts on it that turned. She had no idea what it did other than the fact that the light coming out of the weapon grew brighter and altered in color when she shifted it.

The man she had used it on tonight was something special. She didn't know why. She only knew that Happer had told her he was valuable. He had described him _and_ his companions, but it was obvious he had particular interest in the tall, raven-black haired man. Happer had told her to keep watch for the trio. That they would be coming to Chester with the intention of stopping him. He didn't much care what happened to the other two, but the dark haired man he wanted.

Maeve's plump lips curled in a lascivious smile. She had wanted him too, but she had set that aside as well.

A packet ship was sailing on the morrow. The captain of the _Beagle_ was named Brighton and was one of her clients. He had approached her that morning asking if she knew of anyone of officer quality who could be _persuaded_ to sail back to England with him. When she saw the trio, she knew either the blond man or the ebon haired one would do. It was perverse pleasure that made her make her choice.

Happer was not the only one who could play games.

Returning the weapon to her pocket, Maeve raised a hand and knocked on the door. A second later Happer called out for her to enter. The redhead drew a breath and did just that.

Only to find that her lover was not alone.

Happer was sitting behind a campaign style desk looking every inch the mad general. The desk was piled high with maps and charts and letters, and looked like a battlefield in itself. One map – near the size of the desktop – lay open upon it. Happer was gesturing wildly and speaking animatedly to a rough looking British sergeant. As she approached, Maeve noticed the map was of the local area. Happer was pointing to the Brandywine River and tracing a route along it with his extended finger. "Corner Ford," he said, naming the southernmost crossing. Then, Pyle's Ford. Gibson's Ford. Lower Ford. Chadd's Ford. Brinton's Ford. Jone's Ford. Wistar's Ford. Aaron's Ford.

 _Aaron's Ford?_

Happer's finger halted just above Jone's Ford, which was the last one she was aware of. His alarming blue eyes glinted with craft and excitement as they swung toward her. Maeve moved in closer. Yes, there it was on the map, a place called Aaron's Ford. She had never heard of it, but then, she had never seen anything like Happer's maps either. They were not made of parchment or vellum, but of some strange kind of paper smooth to the touch, and the writing seemed almost to _be_ a part of the paper instead of written or stamped on its surface.

The British sergeant nodded gravely. Then his rough countenance broke into a smile. "Lord Howe is in your debt, Commander Clayworth. With this information we can win this war."

Happer's cobalt blue eyes met hers. Then he turned back to the man and the map. "No doubt. Washington does not know of Aaron's Ford. You will take him and his troops completely by surprise and you will _crush_ them."

"Aye. That we will." The sergeant agreed gruffly as he extended a hand to take the map. It was only then that he seemed to notice her. "Miss Maeve," the soldier said, dipping his head.

"Sergeant Ashford."

Instantly Happer was alert – and jealous. Even when he chose to disdain her inestimable charms, he still didn't want her with other men. She had told him that was impossible. That _other men_ were her bread and butter. Grudgingly, he had learned to accept her occupational _necessities._ Still, whenever they were together, there was a fire in his eyes that warned her she had best not try his patience _too_ far.

"You two know each other?" Happer asked as his lanky frame unfurled and rose from the chair.

"From the tavern, Commander. Nothing more," Sergeant Ashford replied. It was true. He one was _not_ one of her customers. Maeve smiled and nodded, acknowledging him. Sergeants rarely were.

They couldn't afford her _or_ her girls.

"I see." Happer angled in front of the desk and balanced his long, lean frame by resting one hip on its well worn edge. "A different _kind_ of customer, eh, Maeve?"

"So long as they pay, I don't give a _fig_ what kind they are," she answered, even though she knew she shouldn't.

The sergeant looked from her to Happer, and then back. Tipping his hat, he arranged a hasty exit. "I'd best be on my way," he said. "The general's waiting."

With that he exited the door – with alacrity.

Happer followed him across the room, moving toward her. Maeve suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling of a hen watching the fox's approach. She took a step back, but then thought better of it and held her ground.

Such was the game they played.

Happer Clayworth was at least ten years older than her. Age had plowed furrows in his brow and laid wheel ruts that ran on each side of his nose to his chin. It had frosted his near amber-colored hair with white, but only at the temples, lending him a distinguished air. He was not exactly a handsome man, but the purpose and certainty that shown out of his piercing blue eyes made him _damnably_ attractive. She had met him at the inn a few weeks before and had actually targeted him for the crimpers. As the night wore on, she found herself sitting at his table listening to him, and then flirting with him, and then….

Their first night together had fed the animal in her. The second and third, her burning need for excitement. After that, well, her mother had always warned her about what happened to the moth drawn too close to the flame.

Happer Clayworth was her flame and she was sure, before he disappeared from her life, that she would be scorched.

When Happer reached her, he caught hold of her and crushed her to his chest. His kiss was hard and meant to hurt. She whimpered and he laughed. Then he pushed her away to the length of his arms.

"Where is it?" Happer asked without preamble.

Maeve stuttered. "Where…where is what?"

His hand cupped her chin. He forced her to meet his unblinking eyes. "The weapon you stole."

"I don't know what you mean," she answered, turning away.

He was not about to let her. Happer's fingers dug into her flesh. "I have more than one. If you don't want to see what happens when I place mine on setting _three_ , you'd better answer my question."

"What makes you think I have it?" she challenged.

"I know you, Maeve," he replied, his voice pitched in a low threatening growl. "You and I are _too_ alike. I should never have shown it to you. It was too great a temptation."

"What would I do with such a thing?" she demanded.

Happer laughed again. It was a high bark, that spiraled down into something resembling madness. "Why, become Queen of America, what else?" His fingers slipped from her chin to her throat and he began to squeeze. " _Tell me_. Where is it, and what did you _want_ it for?"

She swallowed under the pressure as she began to choke. Her words were forced out between ragged coughs. "There was…a prime…specimen. I didn't…want him to…get…away." Maeve gasped. "Happer…you're… _killing_ me."

He moved in closer; so close his breath rustled the hair drifting across her cheeks, so close his steel blue eyes were daggers. "Are you working for them? Did they _recruit_ you? Did they set you to _find_ me?" Happer's silk smooth fingers dug ditches in her skin. " _Have you betrayed me?"_

"No!" Maeve felt her knees weakening. "No…I…don't work...for them. I…stopped one…of them…just like you said. Happer…." Tears welled in her eyes. "Let…me… _go."_

He did. So abruptly she plummeted to the floor.

A second later, as she knelt on all fours gasping like a beached fish, he crouched beside her. Taking hold of her hair, he forced her head up so she could meet his wild stare. " _Tell me_."

She was afraid to lie, afraid that somehow he would _know_. "It was…the man with the…dark hair."

" _Which_ man with dark hair? The human or the Vulcan?"

She stared at him, not comprehending. "What?"

His fingers tightened in her hair. "The younger or the older?"

She was _doomed._ "The…younger," she admitted, fully expecting that in the next second his anger would snap her head back and she would be dead.

"I told you I wanted him," Happer snarled.

Maeve couldn't help it. The game had its own rules. She looked up and met his violent eyes.

"So did I."

She saw it in those eyes. He considered killing her. Then, suddenly, he released her. Pitching his body back, Happer Clayworth fell to the floor as his high-pitched, insane laughter filled the room. Maeve remained completely still. She had witnessed such a fit before. He would either emerge from it a reasonable man or he would break her neck.

"Happer…" she ventured at last.

Even as the laughter faded, he held up a hand as if in surrender. "Queen to King's Level One."

"What?"

"You win this match." Happer sat up abruptly. After climbing to his feet, he held his hand out and wiggled his fingers. "The phaser. Please."

Maeve didn't argue. She reached into her pocket pannier and produced it.

"Where did you send him?" Happer asked as he shifted the tiny wheel forward.

"To the docks."

Happer held out his hand as he pointed the weapon at her. Whether to help her up or for the money she didn't know. "How much did Brighton offer you?"

Maeve permitted herself a slight smile. "A king's ransom." Producing it from her pocket, she dropped a velvet pouch full of coins into his hand. There were dozens and they were _all_ gold.

Happer Clayworth's cruel mouth quirked with an acid smile.

"Then we'll have _twice_ the profit when we retrieve the merchandise."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Leonard McCoy had thought Klingons the most reprehensible creatures in the galaxy. He decided now he had been wrong.

It was British redcoats.

He had been taken hold of and rammed into a chair, his lip bloodied and one eye blackened, and they didn't even _want_ any information from him. He had simply gotten in their way when Major Tarleton ordered his uniformed ruffians to accost both the wounded Robert Larkin and his aged father, Samuel. Robert lay on the floor, gasping for breath. His father, bloodied but proud, remained fixed at his son's feet, held back from taking the major by the throat only by the threat of a loaded pistol.

"You have been raging long enough," Samuel Larkin challenged. "What is it you want? What crime do you accuse us of?"

"Why, treason, from one and all," Tarleton said with a broad sweep of his hand.

"This is madness, sir!"

"You will be silent!" the officer snapped.

"I will _not_ be silent," the older man retorted, uncowed. " _You_ are the invaders here. This is my home – "

"This is no _longer_ your home. It is property quartered for the use and comfort of His Majesty King George's troops. And let us understand each other gentlemen. This is _not_ a court of law. This is an _outpost_ of his Majesty's army and I am in command. I, gentlemen, am Lord here." Tarleton paused and his steely eyes moved from the old man to his son, to McCoy. " It is my belief that there is treason in this room. Now I shall find out what it is by sunset tomorrow or I shall shoot you all. Does that make my position quite clear?"

"Perfectly," McCoy replied before the older man could say a word.

"Doctor McCoy," the major said, turning toward him. "You do know the penalty for harboring and giving succor to a rebel, do you not?"

"No, but I bet I can guess," he answered, wiping his lip free of blood.

Tarleton frowned. He nodded his head and his thug struck McCoy again. "This is no jest, Doctor. You will all be _dead_ by the next sunrise unless one of you tells me what I want to know! _Where_ is Lafayette?"

McCoy watched as the older man's eyes flicked to his son. Robert was in pain but he would not budge. Even if his father did not agree with the younger Larkin's faithfulness to the Cause and its leaders, he obviously respected his son's choice – and honored Robert's integrity by his _faith_ in that choice.

"You will get nothing from us, sir," Samuel Larkin proclaimed. "And if you kill us, you will have nothing still."

Tarleton's cruel lips pursed in frustration. "True," he nodded. "True. You rebels have stiff necks. They are not easily bent, and breaking them seems to do little but release you from pain." The major beat his finger against his lip for a moment and then pivoted sharply on his heel to face his sergeant. "Confine the Larkins in the jail. We shall see what a few nights on a cold floor without food or water do to their resolve."

"Leave my father out of this!" Robert protested as he was pulled roughly to his feet. "He is not a soldier. You cannot – "

"He is a _rebel_ soldier's fatherand, as such, every bit as guilty as his disgraceful child." Tarleton snapped his fingers. "Take them away!"

McCoy watched as the two men were roughly handled through the door. A second later, he found himself alone with the monster in crimson.

"Well, what do you want with me?" the surgeon asked boldly.

"I want you to deliver a message, Doctor McCoy. I understand there is a third Larkin residing in this house. A _young_ one by the name of Jeremiah."

"Maybe," the surgeon hedged.

"As such, his resolve may not prove the _equal_ of the elder men in the family. You will tell him this – he _will_ find the location of the traitor, Lafayette, and bring the information to me before the next sunset or I will have his brother _and_ his father executed the next day as traitors against the Crown!"

"Good God, man! You can't be that much of a barbarian!" McCoy protested.

Major Tarleton drew close. His eyes were those of a snake about to strike. "Does not poison voluntarily ingested free the body of parasites?" The soldier's sneer dripped venom. "We both have our methods, equally effective."

"How dare you compare yourself to a healer!" McCoy shouted, truly enraged. "You are nothing but an unprincipled, sadistic _son of a_ – "

The sentence went unfinished as the butt of a British musket struck the starship surgeon behind his left ear and drove him first to the ground, and then into darkness.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jim Kirk glanced at the silent Frenchman at his side, and then rested his weary body against a dockyard building. It had been nearly twelve hours since they had stepped through the Guardian and he was beginning to notice both the lack of rest _and_ food. Leaning his head back, Jim closed his eyes. They were awaiting their companion's return. As Jeremy Larkin was native to Chester, they had agreed to let him explore the pier alone. That way he could mingle with the town's citizens and those occupying the dock without drawing attention. In a town as small as this one – a village really – anyone new was a point of interest. Kirk knew it would be hard to hide his own military bearing – harder still to mind himself and keep from snapping orders and arousing suspicion. He was worried about Spock and that did little to lengthen his patience. But _he_ wasn't the worst of it. Kirk's hazel eyes peered from beneath thick black lashes at the youth beside him. There was something about Paul du Motier that was exceptional. He was not your run-of-the-mill university student. The Frenchman held himself like royalty and seemed to have as much difficulty surrendering to other's authority as Kirk did. On their way to the pier Paul had wanted to return to the tavern. Jeremy had said it would not be wise. The young man had finally given in, but the color had risen in his cheeks and he had let loose a few choice words – in French, of course – before doing so. Kirk could tell. It had been all Paul could do to keep himself from ignoring young Larkin and plunging into the disorderly crowd.

 _Du Motier._ Why did that name sound familiar?

"Jeremy is coming," the young man in question breathed near his ear.

Kirk was instantly alert. Jeremy was nonchalantly walking toward their hiding place as if he hadn't a care in the world, making jokes with the men and flirting with the ladies. An open bottle of ale was in his hand. It was a practiced ease and did not suit the determined young man the starship captain had come to know. Kirk wondered, not for the first time, what it was the youngest Larkin concealed beneath the guise of the daydreamer and ne'er-do-well.

With only the merest glance over his shoulder, Jeremy sauntered into the shadows some twenty feet away from them. A few moments later he appeared from out of the shadows, rounding the building that backed them and coming up on them from the rear.

"Gentlemen," he said with a nod.

Kirk held the barked command at bay. "Did you discover anything?" he asked, instead of ordering Jeremy to report.

"Nothing definite," the blond man sighed. "There is so much traffic along the river that one wagon fails to stand out from another."

It was true. In the short time he and Paul had been waiting several dozen wagons laden with goods had passed them by, as well as a half-dozen British soldiers and countless shadowy citizens. This time of night – just past midnight – the wharf was a window onto the waking underworld.

"So we have nothing," Kirk spat with disgust.

A slight smile curled Jeremy's lip. "I didn't _say_ that."

"What is it, Jeremy?" Paul asked. "What did you see?"

The blond shook his head. "It's not what _I_ saw. My…the girl I see, Elizabeth, well, she is here at the dock with her uncle." Jeremy grinned. "John Coates seems to be of the opinion that he is meant to be more than a farmer. Of late, he has been transporting goods from Philadelphia with the intention of selling them in England for a profit. Apparently he and Bess have been here for a good two hours. She has been biding in Goodwife Behr's store as he goes from ship to ship seeking the cheapest transport."

"And?" Kirk demanded.

"Two things. Bess recalled a wagon speeding past, headed for one of the packets that makes sail for England with the next tide. When her uncle went to speak to the captain of that ship, a man named Brighton, he was treated harshly and denied access."

"There is nothing unusual about that," the Frenchman remarked.

"No," Jeremy agreed. "But you know how it is with women. Bess has a _feeling_."

"A feeling?" Kirk asked.

"That something is amiss. That the packet ship's captain was not interested in any _ordinary_ cargo."

"What ship was it?" Paul inquired.

"The _Beagle_ out of London," the blond man replied. "I made some inquiries and found that the _Beagle_ is down a good many men. She came in with multiple casualties from scurvy." Jeremy's gaze met Kirk's. "Word is Captain Brighton is looking for replacements."

"For seamen?"

He nodded. "And officers."

The starship captain pursed his lips and considered all he had heard. "This Maeve, you said she ran a brothel. Has there ever been rumor that she does more than that – that she might be involved in the trade of impressing men into service for the British navy?"

Jeremy shrugged. "The two go hand in hand, but no, I have not heard that. Still, I would not put anything past Maeve. She is well know around here. A man would do well to steer clear of her and her _charms_." He hesitated. "Your friend would have been wise to do so. This is harsh payment for one night's pleasure."

Kirk couldn't help it. He laughed. "Trust me, Maeve's _charms_ would have been the last thing to lure Mr. Spock out into the night."

"And why would that be, sir?" Jeremy asked. "Is he not a man?"

Jim frowned. Somehow that hadn't come out right. "Spock is…well…." He hesitated. _What_ should he say? Wincing, he decided. "He's…studying for the priesthood."

"And he met his fate in a tavern, walking off with a woman of the night?" young Larkin responded, truly perplexed.

"He probably thought he could save her," Kirk dismissed it quickly. "None of that matters. Spock's life does. Where is this ship?"

"Along the wharf. The fifth from the end. Elizabeth is still there, across the street." Jeremy's jaw was tight. "I told her to take no chances, but to keep watch for anything unusual."

"Good man," Jim responded. He drew a breath and then added, "I'll go alone from here."

"To take on an entire ship of what may well prove villains and murderers?" Jeremy shook his head. "No, sir. You will not."

"I agree," Paul echoed. "It will take at least two to sneak onto that ship – one to go, and another to keep watch. Three would be even better."

"Besides, this is my home," the blond man insisted. "If there is a crimpers' ring running in Chester, the authorities should know about it. My father and the other men of the council would not tolerate it."

Kirk hesitated. They meant well, but having the two 18th century men along would hamper him. He couldn't use his phaser, even once he was out of sight. Also, if one of them died and it effected history….

The starship captain looked from one adamant face to the other. "All right," he answered, seeming to give in. "You two outnumber me."

He'd just have to lose them along the way.

Unexpectedly, a sharp voice cut through the night air. "Jeremy! Jeremy Larkin! Are you here?"

Kirk melted back into the shadows as those on the dock turned to stare.

Jeremy tensed, and then relaxed. "It's all right. It is my friends, Isak and Henry. You two stay here. I'll go around the back and meet them in the road."

Kirk and Paul exchanged looks as the lanky blond disappeared into the shadows and then reappeared a moment later directly before them underneath a flickering street lamp. The pair that joined him were the ones they had met at the Larkin home – the men who had had a party to attend. From the look of them, disheveled, dirty, with what appeared to be smoke and perhaps powder burns on their clothes, it must have been one _hell_ of a bang up.

At first it seemed as if nothing was amiss. Then Kirk read in Jeremy Larkin's posture the evidence of surprise. The blond man's back stiffened. A shaking hand shot out to catch Henry Abington's arm. Jeremy slumped, and then straightened to a greater height and resolve.

A minute later he reappeared at their side with Isak Poole in tow. The black man nodded to them as Larkin began to speak. "I must go," the blond man said. "I apologize for it, but I have no choice. My father and elder brother have been taken prisoner by the British major newly quartered in our home. They are in the jail."

"Jail?" Kirk felt his stomach sink to his Starfleet issued boots. "What about McCoy?"

"At the moment the doctor is held in our home. He was roughly treated, but is apparently unharmed."

"How do you know this?" Kirk questioned.

The young man's eyes flicked to his black friend, and then returned to him. "After returning from their engagement, Isak and Henry went to my home to find me." Jeremy's voice was controlled, but with a growing undercurrent of rage. "They found, instead, my wounded brother and aged father being led off in shackles. Henry waited a few moments and then went to the door to make inquiry after me, as if he did not know I was away. He saw your friend with Major Tarleton. The doctor was battered, but seemed unbent."

Jim scowled. _Now_ what should he do? Spock was in the greatest danger, but the Vulcan was also the most capable of looking out for himself. Bones was a healer, not a fighter.

"You are worried about your other friend," Jeremy said.

"Yes. Do you think the major would harm him?"

"He wasn't taken to jail, so that suggests Tarleton does not suspect him of anything," Isak answered.

"Jim, I will see to my brother and father, and then make certain your friend is all right," Jeremy assured him. "You have my word. Isak will remain with you in my place, to aid you in rescuing Mr. Spock."

Kirk's gaze traveled from the blond man to the black and back. "Who _are_ you?" he asked.

Jeremy looked startled. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are not what you pretend to be, Jeremy Larkin, an idler and dreamer of dreams. You are a man of purpose and, if I had to guess, one of some rank."

"Sir, you are mistaken." Young Larkin had actually paled. "I am no such thing."

The starship captain held his gaze for a moment and then smiled. "Play it any way you have to. Just make sure my friend is all right. Bones may be grumpy and irascible, but he's the only curmudgeon I've got."

"Henry is waiting, Jeremy," Isak Poole said. The black man's tone was unafraid and his manner cool and calm. He spoke as if he had been educated. Kirk wondered if he was a slave or a freeman. Most likely the latter, he decided. From what he remembered of 18th century Pennsylvania, it was mostly abolitionist.

"Aye." Jeremy reached out for Kirk's hand. When he presented it, the young man shook it firmly. "Be well. May Providence shine on you and your enterprise." Young Larkin missed the starship captain's startlement, and then Kirk's smile as he turned to bid farewell to Paul. "Sir, I am sure my brother did not mean to lead you into such danger when he invited you to visit."

"Take care of Robert," Paul said. "He is a good man."

"Aye, he is." Jeremy's look was indefinable. There was something in it of outrage, but more of the kind of sadness a man knows when something – or _someone_ – of great importance is standing on the brink of a precipice.

It probably echoed the look on his own face.

The blond nodded once and was gone.

Kirk looked at Isak, "So, Jeremy filled you in? You know what we are about?"

"Breaking and entering and knocking British heads together?" the black man grinned.

"Right," Kirk answered.

This _was_ going to be an interesting night.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Elizabeth Coates shivered with the evening air. It was chill, and her light shawl did little to warm her. Her uncle had left her in the care of an elderly woman of his acquaintance who owned a shop on the pier. The woman owed him money and so, when she had been roused from sleep and rudely ordered to open up her shop, she had done so with only the smallest amount of grumbling. Goodwife Behr had made her comfortable and then returned to her bed. She could hear the old woman snoring now. Elizabeth had pretended to fall asleep in a chair, but stood now beside the large window that overlooked the wharf with its army of tall and small ships. Jeremy had asked her to keep an especial watch on the _Beagle_ that lay harbored directly across from the shop. He had explained that a man had been kidnapped and it was suspected that he might have been taken aboard. That woman Maeve McGinnis was involved. Elizabeth shuddered and pulled her shawl more tightly about her. If there was ever a woman created who set everything pure and noble aside for gain, it was the striking, fiery haired Irishwoman. Elizabeth had often wondered what kept Maeve in a small town like Chester. If she was plying more than one trade – and in with crimpers – it finally made sense. Sneaking impressed men aboard a packet ship at their small but busy harbor would have proved a great deal easier, and less costly, than doing so in, say, Philadelphia.

Besides, here, Maeve probably had no competition.

Her uncle had said he would not be back until morning. He was engaged in back room meetings and most likely would end sleeping in one of the inns. Uncle John wanted her to think he was completely upright and without fault, but sometimes she wondered. On occasion he had come in from the barn smelling of something _more_ than hay and manure.

Elizabeth sighed as she pressed a hand against the glass. Jeremy had told her as well that he, along with Henry and Isak, would soon go to war. It seemed the British intended to confront Washington's army somewhere close by – perhaps at one of the fords on the Brandywine – and soon. Jeremy thought by the 11th at the latest. Intelligence had pointed to a confrontation this very night, but as no news had reached them, it seemed General Howe had decided to wait for a better opportunity. So far the Society that Jeremy had founded along with the others, named for the derided Yankee Doodle, had placed him in harm's way but there had been little _real_ risk. He and his friends released broadsides. They planted explosives and set them off and then ran. They carried intelligence from one town to the other. But they had never been involved in fighting. The thought of it was terrifying. She had seen men return from the battlefield, shattered in both mind and body. She had heard their screams of agony as limbs were sawed off, as infection and madness set in; as they died.

A single tear ran down Elizabeth's cheek. She didn't strike it away.

 _Jeremy_ could die.

Even as the thought occurred to her, she noticed movement in front of the _Beagle_. A man and a woman had stepped from a carriage, sending the vehicle screaming away. Elizabeth stepped behind the curtains but continued to peer out. She didn't know the man, but she knew the woman.

It was the whore, Maeve McGinnis.

Clutching the fine white fabric of Goodwife Behr's Holland-edged curtains, she pulled them back so she could see better. A man in uniform had joined them. The trio spoke for a moment and then all three mounted the gangboard and headed up and into the ship.

Elizabeth hesitated. What should she do? The _Beagle_ was set to sail soon and if the man Jeremy sought _was_ aboard, this turn of events promised that he would be lost. She knew what Jeremy would say. Sit tight. Don't do anything reckless.

But wasn't she _too_ a member of the Yankee Doodle Society? Could she do any less than its men?

Shouldn't she do _more?_

Quickly walking to the door, Elizabeth turned the key in the lock. She glanced back at the widow's room. Seeing and hearing nothing, she opened the door and stepped out into the damp night air. The cries of ships' business greeted her. The sound of muffled voices and unsavory deals. The pregnant danger of shadows.

She would not be afraid. Jeremy needed information and she was the only one who could get it for him.

Undaunted, Elizabeth Coates squared her shoulders and set off to board the _Beagle._


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Things had not gone exactly as planned.

Spock shifted his body and pulled once again on the iron shackles that bound him to both the wall and floor of the _Beagle._ Though he had broken with ease the restraints that had once confined him to the Enterprise's sickbay bed, which were composed of a material far superior in tensile strength and flexibility, he did not seem to be able to make these budge. It was partly due, he knew, to the odd angle at which he was confined – his wrists were bound to the wall and his feet, to the floor. And due as well to the fact that metal spikes had been driven into the floorboards and then bent back up, before being secured both above and below with iron fastenings. Whoever had created the holding cell in which he found himself had no intention of allowing any prisoner to escape.

It _had_ been his intention to attempt an escape during the transfer from the stable to the ship. This had proven impossible after Maeve stunned him once again with the phaser. His muscles ached and he was weakened from two such episodes in so short a time. The 18th century woman could not know that the repeated exposure to nadion particles would eventually break down his cell structure and lead to collapse and death. He appreciated the irony. If Maeve did not cease her repeated use of the weapon, her prize catch would soon be dead.

Shifting again, Spock eased the ache in his back by bracing it against the ship's wall. Closing his eyes, he drew on his Vulcan strength – that inner reserve of alien power he reined in on the mostly human Enterprise – and channeled it into his arms. Bracing his feet against the thick iron squares that rooted his shackles to the floor, he began to pull. After several minutes' effort, he felt them shift…slightly. Gasping, Spock released the chains and let them fall to the floor with a clank. Then he opened his eyes.

And found Maeve watching him.

The Irishwoman was standing in the doorway; one shoulder pressed against the jamb. As she met his eyes, she straightened and stepped into the room, pulling the door nearly closed behind her. Heedless of the nest of ropes and unoccupied chains, the fetid nature of the floorboards and the lack of light, Maeve made her way directly to him and knelt by his side. For a moment, she said nothing, but simply extended her hand and ran it along his arm, feeling his strained muscles.

"You're trembling," she said, her voice a husky whisper.

"I can assure you, Madame, it is not from your touch," he remarked quite ungallantly.

Maeve laughed. Her fingers dropped to his chest and then trailed down towards his waistband. "No? Perhaps if I touched you somewhere…else?"

Spock hesitated. He had no interest in the woman whatsoever. He did, however have an interestin escaping – and would need aid in doing so. The logical thing to do, therefore, was to _lie._

"Even if such a touch could be calculated to elicit the desired response, little could be gained so long as I continue to be restrained," he commented dryly.

"Ah, a _restrained_ man? Is there such a thing under Heaven?" she asked with a coy sigh. Maeve raised a hand then and lay it alongside his face. The minimal light that pierced the ship's side, entering through a small round portal opposite him, highlighted the two of them. The situation he found himself in was entirely uncomfortable. Maeve, tall, slender, handsome from a human point of view, reminded him entirely too much of Christine Chapel. Though a year and more had passed since the events of Psi-2000 and the influence of the planet's water that worked like alcohol in the blood, he still remembered the human woman's painful expressions of love for him. Her longing. As well as the almost human impulse in him to respond that shamed him still.

Leaning in, the woman kissed him. Spock hesitated, uncertain what to do. Then, steeling himself, he pretended to respond as she pressed her body into his.

"Be careful, Maeve," a familiar voice remarked, "women who fall in love with Vulcans die of broken hearts."

The form beneath Spock's fingers stiffened. Maeve's eyes lit with barely concealed hatred for a moment, before she turned and greeted the newcomer with a polished smile. "You know me, darling," she breathed as she rose to her feet. "Tis not _love_ I'm after."

At the sight of Lt. Cmdr. Happer Clayworth, every fiber in Spock's being reacted with disappointment and disgust. He noted the emotions, put them down to stress and exhaustion, categorized them as useless, and then quickly suppressed them.

"Commander Spock," Clayworth said, "I am most gratified to see you well." Spock noted that the Starfleet officer's accent was decidedly more British than when on the Enterprise. The historian was dressed as a colonial, in a suit cut of a fine cloth, navy blue with a black corduroy trim. His manner had altered as well. When in command of himself, Happer Clayworth was unassuming, even mild. He moved with agitation now, as if he too had been injected with cordrazine. Spock knew, however, that was not the case. It was a _lack_ of medication that had brought Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth to this pass.

"You would not expect me to render felicitations of the same type," he said at last. "Not in our current circumstances."

"No. And this is not how I intended for us to meet." The historian cast a look at Maeve that did not bode well for the woman in the immediate future. "Maeve has been playing her little games. Still, I cannot fail to note the leverage her rebellious actions have given me." Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth approached him and knelt at his side. "If you do not agree to assist me, you will remain in this place."

There was a light of madness in Clayworth's eyes. From his studies of Earth medicine, Spock knew that – while in a manic phase – such people could think themselves not only absolute and consummate, but _gods._ There would be no reasoning with him.

"I do not intend to assist you, _Lt. Cmdr._ Clayworth." Spock emphasized the man's rank, hoping to remind him of his duty. "You have already compromised this…place…by your actions, and continue to do so even now. I have come here to stop you."

"Spock. _You_ of all should understand. A man cannot survive _divided._ Neither can a country. Mother England will not see her sons and daughters slaughtered needlessly. Eight years, Spock. _Eight years_ of death and destruction to come, and for what? So a group of ragtag rebels can take over and reinvent themselves, basing their laws and the land they create on what England has already established? No. _No._ Two thirds of this country did not want this war, or the end it brought them to. England must win, and it will begin tonight."

Spock's eyes flicked to Maeve. The woman was taking all of this in. ' _Did_ not want' and 'the end it _brought_ them to'. It was obvious Clayworth was speaking of something that had already happened – at least from his point of view.

"Send the woman away," Spock said softly.

"Why? Maeve already knows all about me. Though she doesn't know about you. Shall we show her?" Clayworth laid the phaser alongside the wig Spock wore. "Shall we _really_ show her the future?"

"You have violated the Prime Directive, Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth, more than one time. Starfleet regulations demand – "

"What?" Clayworth took hold of Spock's chains and shook them. "What?" His voice was rising in pitch, becoming hysterical. "What are _you_ going to do about it? _Court martial me?"_

"Clayworth, get hold of yourself. Your conduct is unbecoming of an officer of rank."

The other man shook his head sadly. "I should have known, Spock. I thought of everyone maybe _you_ would…but I should have known you _wouldn't_ listen. I thought, maybe, you could understand since you are as divided as this country is now – as dividedas _your_ world once was. I thought maybe you would want to make a difference, like me. But I was wrong." Clayworth rose to his feet, the phaser still in his hand. "You are nothing but rules and Starfleet regulations. You are of no use to me."

Spock's gaze flicked to Clayworth's finger. It rested with some weight on the phaser's trigger. He was not certain he would survive another blast, not even on stun. "No," the Vulcan said truthfully, "I am not."

"I wonder," the historian mused, "what would happen if you died here in the past? Would you then exist in the future? It is a pretty puzzle, isn't it?"

"Don't kill him, Happer." Maeve's voice held a barely concealed plea.

"I should, just for that," Clayworth snarled without looking at her. "What is it with you, Spock? Do they all _want_ you just because they can't _have_ you?"

Spock did not dignify that with an answer.

"Tis not that," Maeve continued, hardening her tone. "We'll have to return the money to Captain Brighton and it's too great a fortune to part with. This one will be gone tonight with the tide. Happer, listen to me. We can buy a good many informants with that gold."

Clayworth blinked several times. A thin sheen of sweat covered his features. Spock noticed the hand holding the phaser was trembling. He estimated the odds that the man would vaporize him at five to one.

Maeve's head swiveled toward the door. "Happer. Captain Brighton's calling."

Clayworth's steel blue eyes glinted like polished metal. He leaned in close, still threatening with the phaser, one lip curled in a sneer.

"Enjoy England, Vulcan," he snarled.

And then he took the phaser and struck Spock hard against the temple, leaving him unconscious and dangling from his chains.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Elizabeth was terrified – but excited. Under cover of darkness, she had managed to board the _Beagle._ There was such a hustle and bustle of crates and other cargo coming and going, as well as passengers who were boarding early for the trip back to England, that she had gone unnoticed. She had waited until an older couple started up the gangboard. Keeping close to them, she gave the seaman minding the entry the suggestion that she was their daughter. Then, as the couple turned toward the stair that led to the lower deck with its staterooms and thirty-odd berths, she had slipped away into the shadows. As she hesitated, uncertain of what to do, the captain of the ship had emerged from a different stair, closer to the rear of the ship. Once on deck, he joined Maeve McGinnis and the stranger who accompanied her.

Elizabeth had listened to their conversation with interest.

The man Jeremy was seeking _was_ on the ship. She knew she should get word back to him, but hesitated to leave less she miss some vital piece of information. Maeve and the stranger went below while the captain turned to the business of the ship. She watched Brighton, listening to every word spoken, wondering about the hectic pace his men set, and then it dawned on her –

The _Beagle_ was preparing to set sail!

Ten minutes or so later, Maeve and the stranger reappeared. The man was flushed with anger and he pulled the wanton woman along at a quick clip, mindless of her protestations. They passed close by Elizabeth as they headed for the gangway. The Irish woman was sobbing and the skin beneath her eye was starting to swell. On her cheek, there was the fresh impression of a man's hand.

Slightly cowed, Maeve said nothing as the stranger hustled her off the ship and away into the night.

Elizabeth chewed her lip and thought furiously. She had grown up around packet ships and knew, once it was decided, that it took very little time for them to be underway. There would be no opportunity to send word to Jeremy if this one was about to sail. If she didn't do something about the situation, the man he was hunting would soon be on his way to England. Taking courage in hand, Elizabeth abandoned the shadows and walked across the deck as if she belonged. The passenger quarters were on one of the lower decks, so no one would think anything of her taking the stair. From what she remembered of the ships she had visited as a child, the place where they held prisoners would be even lower down, toward the bottom of the hull. The ships usually had a small cramped cargo space in the aft of the hold. That's where she would head and if anyone questioned her, she would simply say she had lost her way and let them redirect her up to a higher level. With any luck, she would go undiscovered.

With Providence aiding a _just_ cause, she might even find the keys to the cell hanging on a peg by the door.

As she moved along the galley of the lowest deck, she was mostly ignored. The sailors and seamen were all busy with their duties. There were other passengers coming and going as well, requesting food and drink before they settled in for the night and the long trip ahead. As one man raised his voice, displeased with the reception he was getting, Elizabeth slipped past and out of the area of the bunkers and headed into a dark, cramped section of the ship. At its end there was a barred door. There was no guard. All the sailors were busy elsewhere. Stealing closer, she looked for the expected peg with a ring of keys. She found the peg just to the right of the door, but it was empty. Doubt gripped her, but she refused to give in to it. Providence had not delivered her unnoticed so far only to be frustrated! Casting about, she looked for something that might be used to pick the lock, a spare scrap of metal, perhaps a long nail. There was a barrel by the door. She looked behind it, hoping that she might find a loose fixing and suddenly she knew she had _not_ been deserted.

A ring of keys lay on the floor behind the barrel, dropped there, no doubt, by the last man who had hung them on the peg above it in haste.

Grinning broadly and scared almost to death, Elizabeth shoved the largest key into the lock and was rewarded by a loud click. Turning to check the corridor, she made certain no one was there, and then she pushed the door open not knowing what she would find.

The small room was dark except for the moonlight spilling in and across the rough floorboards from a round porthole set high in the wall. The floor was a web of chains and other hazards. At first she could see nothing, but she could hear well enough. Someone was there. Their breathing was irregular and ragged.

"Hello?" she asked in a whisper. Elizabeth searched her mind for a name. Jeremy had mentioned it. The sound of it was odd on her tongue. "Master Spock, are you here?"

At first there was nothing. Then the sound of cloth shifting on wood and a slight, stifled moan. "Who…."

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Coates." She stepped into the room and pulled the door to behind her. "A friend of Jeremy's."

The man shifted again and chains clanked with his movement. "Miss Coates. You…should go. Nothing you…can do…."

Steeling herself, Elizabeth moved farther into the room. "I have the keys," she said. "I can free you." At least she hoped the smaller keys on the chain were the ones to the shackles Spock obviously wore.

"Too dangerous." His voice fell away and there was another sound of pain, denied again. "Clayworth would…kill you."

That must be the stranger with Maeve, she thought. As she picked her way over the chains and other impediments, Elizabeth asked him, "Maeve McGinnis did this, didn't she?"

"An instrument," he answered. "Nothing…more."

She could see him now, sitting against the wall, his long legs bent like bows before him; his wrists and ankles shackled to the ship. A black trail ran down the left side of his pale angular face. Blood, dripping from a wound. Hastening to him, she knelt by Spock's feet and tried one of the smaller keys. Her hands were shaking so she wasn't certain if _she_ was the reason the attempt failed, or if it was the wrong key. When she tried again, there was a _click_ and the shackled popped open.

"I'll have you free in a minute," she promised as she set to work on the other leg.

"Miss Coates," the man said, his voice gaining strength. "I strongly…suggest you go." His voice was deep and ran with an undercurrent of genuine concern for her.

"I'm a stranger, why would you care what happened to me?" she asked as she moved to the shackle that bound his right arm.

There was amusement in his reply. "I might ask the same thing of you."

"Well, we're even then," she answered with a smile. "We're both either very good people or very stubborn."

He was silent as she moved to his other arm. Then he said, "I calculate the odds to be…extremely high that the reason has more to do with the latter than the former."

"There! You're free," she proclaimed as the last iron fell away. "Can you stand?"

"I shall endeavor to do so," he answered even as he began to rise. Using the wall as a prop, Spock worked his way to his feet. He stood there with his eyes closed, swaying, so long she feared he might tumble back to the floor.

"Are you all right?" she asked at last.

His dark eyes popped open. "I was…gathering strength. I believe I can – "

Elizabeth heard it too. Someone was coming! "What should we do?"

Spock looked at her. "Assist me to the door. Position me behind it and then move back where they can see you."

His voice was stronger and his demeanor communicated to her that he knew what he was about. She didn't know why, but she trusted him. Doing as he said, she helped Spock to navigate the minefield of the floor and then left him to the side of the door, hidden in its shadows.

A moment later the door opened and a sailor stepped in. His pistol was in his hand and he was frowning. Elizabeth moved into the cascading moonlight, showing herself. The appearance of a woman in the prison cell so startled the seaman that he let his arm drop as he moved farther into the room.

"What the _hell_ are you doing in – "

A second later, the seaman lay on the floor unmoving. She hadn't really seen what had happened, but it seemed that Spock had simply touched the man on the shoulder and he had dropped.

For the first time since entering the dark chamber, she was afraid.

"What did you do?" she asked the man with raven-black hair as he knelt by the sailor's side.

Spock picked up the seaman's weapon and placed it behind his belt. Then he removed his coat. He glanced at her as he dropped the garment to the floor and began to unbutton the other man's uniform jacket. "A useful trick I learned in the…Orient," he replied. "It renders a man unconscious for several hours." Rising unsteadily to his feet with the seaman's coat in his hands, Spock began to pull it on. "Do you see his cap?" he asked.

The sailor _had_ been wearing one. She bent and searched for it and found it quickly enough. Then she handed it to Spock.

As he placed it on his head, he nodded toward the door. "I am going to step out into the passageway. If any alarm is raised, you will conceal yourself and make good your escape later when the way is clear. Is that understood?"

She nodded. "Yes."

Removing the pistol from his waistband, Spock headed for the door. His gait, while quite certain was still unsteady. Someone had given him a hard blow to the head and he showed every sign of a shaking of the brain. She knew from experience – a cousin had been kicked once into a stone wall by a mule – that such a blow could wait and strike a man later, and prove fatal.

He glanced back at her and then stepped into the corridor. The few seconds it took him to return seemed an eternity. Remaining in the doorway, Spock held out his hand. "Miss Coates, if you would be so good as to accompany me to the main deck?"

They emerged into the fresh air a few moments later. As before, the upper deck was a hive of activity. Instead of heading directly for the gangway plank, Spock steered them behind a tall stack of crates. From there he assessed their situation. Elizabeth did as well, and it was _not_ promising. On the pier two British soldiers leaned against the pilings, deep in conversation. Near them a pair of wagons were being unloaded. There were two men with the first and one in the latter. Each was reaching for a sack or crate with the intention of bringing the goods aboard. At least a dozen sailors were laying hands on a line, drawing the thick rope back in anticipation of soon setting sail. The captain was shouting orders; his attention directed to the aft of the ship.

Spock was silent for a long time. Then he sighed. "The situation is untenable."

"Pardon me?" she asked, not knowing what he meant.

"Impossible," he snapped, seemingly angry.

"Is something wrong?" she prodded.

"No. Forgive me. I find I am…frustrated that I cannot come up with a solution." Spock hesitated and then put a hand to his head. The dark blood that ran down the left side of it had grown to a small river.

"You're hurt."

"It is…a distraction." His dark eyes swept the deck again, settling on an empty spot midway along the starboard side of the ship. She saw something kindle in them – a course, perhaps, past that which was desperate.

"What? What are you thinking?" she asked him.

Spock turned toward her, his expression unreadable. "Miss Coates, can you swim?"


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

James T. Kirk shouldered a heavy sack of flour and turned toward the gangboard that led up onto the _Beagle's_ deck. He couldn't help but feel a sort of thrill as his foot struck the planks. As a child, one of his heroes had been Captain Horatio Hornblower. The tall tales of Hornblower's tall ship and its adventures had kindled the first spark of wanderlust in his youthful heart. Now, here he was, setting foot on one! If not for his worry about Spock, and his concern for McCoy, he would have loved to allow himself a few moments to explore her – maybe even to set sail so he could feel the sea spray on his face and hear the canvas sails snap in the wind.

As usual there was no time for the captain to play and that was a pity.

Glancing over his shoulder, Kirk made certain that Isak Poole and Paul were following close on his heels. He didn't want to get too far apart. Both men seemed more than capable of taking care of themselves, but this was _his_ command and he wasn't about to surrender any more hostages to fate – or chance having a man from the past die on his watch. He had no way of knowing if either of these men were important, but as they had learned with Captain Christopher, it didn't have to be them. It might be their child or grandchild, or _great_ grandchild who contributed something the future could not exist without.

The Frenchman still bothered him. There was something familiar about him, but the image wouldn't come into focus. And even now, he simply did not have time to think about it. Events were moving too fast. Kirk's grin was grim. It was true – _time_ and tide waited for no man.

As his gaze fell on the black man, Isak nodded. They had decided they would get on board and once they had assessed the situation, take action. Their posture as conveyors of cargo would get them into the innermost recesses of the sea-going vessel. If Spock was here, it was probable he was being held in one of the many cramped spaces located low in the hull. These old ships, for the most part, followed a certain predictable pattern.

As Kirk stepped onto the deck, he paused to shift the flour bag from one shoulder to the other, as though seeking balance. While he did, his keen gaze took in the mob of seamen, passengers, wagoneers and dock workers. The ship was a hive of activity, with people shouting and running to and fro. He started to turn to make a comment to Isak who was coming up behind him. As he did, the starship captain realized something was wrong. Several seamen were standing _on_ the starboard rail, looking down into the water. Kirk jumped as two shots rang out and gun smoke filled the air.

"What is happening?" Paul asked as he too joined them.

Kirk shook his head as he moved into the crowd that was forming around the seamen. "Stay here!" he ordered.

The seamen were walking on the rail with practiced ease. When he drew closer, Kirk saw that each held a pistol and that both weapons were smoking. What were they shooting at, he wondered? Certainly not fish.

"Did you get 'im?" the one man asked.

"Think so. Can't be certain though. Tis too _damn_ dark!"

"Was that a woman with him? Cheeky thing," the first remarked as he swung down onto the deck. "Serves her right for thwartin' King George's justice if she drowns."

James T. Kirk swallowed hard over a lump of fear. Someone had escaped. He didn't need his Vulcan friend to quote the odds on just _who_ it had been….

"Get out o' here!" the seaman shouted as he waved his flintlock at the crowd of gawkers. "Ain't nothin' to see. Show's over!"

"You tell them, Ames," the other sailor said as he squatted on the rail. "Ain't nothin' to see here either. No heads bobbing up for air. They've bid fair to disappear."

"Bid fair to drown's more like it," Seaman Ames snarled. And again he repeated, "Serves them right."

The crowd had parted around him and begun to dissipate. Kirk held his ground. He approached the men and waited until Ames turned and met his gaze. Then he demanded, as if he had the authority to, "What happened here?"

Ames hesitated and then straightened up, as if recognizing the command accent in his tone. "Prisoners escaped, Guv. Orders were to shoot to kill."

"Did you? Kill them, I mean? And who were they?"

Ames scowled, as if unsure he should answer. "Look here, who are you to be askin'?"

"Captain James Kirk," he answered, letting his rank explain it for him. "Now tell me, who they were."

The other sailor stepped down from the rail and approached him. "We don't know who the woman was, only that she freed the man. He was a…special passenger. Captain's prerogative." The man cocked his head and examined Kirk. "Just what ship _are_ you captain of, mate?"

"The _Enterprise_ ," he snapped.

The seaman's eyebrows stood at attention. "The _HMS Enterprise_?"

Kirk didn't answer. "The man. Did you know a name?"

"What business is it of yours, stranger?" a cultured voice, smooth as honey and hard as the stick that stirred it, asked.

The starship captain whirled to find himself confronting an 18th century version of himself. Captain Brighton was about his height and weight, and tough and tanned as the planks beneath his feet. He looked fifty but might have been ten years younger, it was hard to tell. The naval officer wore a long wig such as Kirk had seen in paintings of the period, mostly on barristers and judges, and held himself with a casual but prepossessing air. Abel Brighton was king of his dominion and he knew it.

Kirk shrugged. "It's not often a man finds sailors fishing with bullets. I was just curious."

"Said he was a _captain_ , Captain," Ames growled.

Brighton's eyes were the pale gray of morning fog and cold as that mist in November. "Did he? And just what ship might you be captain of, Master…."

"He said it was the _Enterprise."_

Brighton's brows didn't head skyward, but they waggled with interest. "Did he now?"

Kirk shrugged. "I might have exaggerated."

The captain of the _Beagle_ examined him closely. "I…think not." Brighton's paper thin lips pursed. Then he snapped his fingers. "Take this man. He is a spy!"

As the two seamen came forward and took him by the arms, Kirk protested. "Captain Brighton, no. I'm just a simple tradesman come aboard to deliver supplies."

Brighton shook his head. "There is nothing ' _simple_ ' about you. I'll wager you came on board to free your friend. What was he? First mate to you?" The British captain sneered. "Impressment is a poor reward for such loyalty, but in the place of the _merchandise_ I have lost, you will do."

"Impressment is illegal," Kirk reminded him.

Abel Brighton's sneer matured into a wicked smile. "Only on land. On this ship, _my_ word is law."

" _Capitaine_ Brighton!" a strong voice called.

Kirk winced. The accent was French. He turned with the English commander to see Paul's ramrod straight figure standing ten feet away. The pistol in his hand was leveled at Brighton. A few feet behind him, a very nervous looking Isak Poole was running interference, his own weapon drawn.

"You will release him," the Frenchman commanded.

Brighton stepped deliberately into Paul's line of fire. "No. Now kill me, if you have the _bullocks_ , you French frog."

"I do not wish to kill you," the young man replied, though his tone belied the truth of the statement.

Captain Brighton was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his outrage had ripened into open hatred. " _I_ do not wish to permit you to live," he replied, his voice quiet and deadly. "We do not always get what we want."

Kirk heard it. There was something in the _Beagle's_ captain's tone. That image concerning the Frenchman he had been trying to bring into focus; Brighton had it. The Englishman _knew_ who Paul was.  
"You would not remember me," Brighton went on, taking a step toward the young man. "I am sure a hundred packets come and go in a day in George Town's harbor. But I remember you. I was there when you departed to the cheers of those _traitorous_ crowds. The French fop, coming to bless America with his presence." Brighton moved even closer, as if he knew no fear. "Who could have supposed you would come to be an inspiration – a _force_ that must be stopped?"

Kirk's mind was whirling. Georgetown, with a harbor. South Carolina, then? A French fop, but not so. A man of action. The starship captain's eyes flicked to the Frenchman. Neither Paul's nerve nor his aim wavered. And soyoung. So _very_ young. A boy, really. A boy.

 _The_ boy.

Good God! Paul was the Marquis de Lafayette!

And he had just led him onto a British ship and straight into danger.

Good God indeed….

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeremy Larkin paced the path outside the town hall. It was well after midnight and the British solders who guarded it had not been happy when he had awakened them with his incessant knocking. Neither had they been pleased when he insisted on seeing his father and brother and refused to leave until he did. There had been a moment where he thought they would simply knock him over the head and throw him in with the rest of his family, but it had passed when an older soldier, a sergeant, stepped outside and asked the pair what was happening. The man stared at him and then, after telling the guards to wait, retired inside.

That had been a quarter of an hour ago.

Jeremy glanced back toward his home. Henry had gone there to keep watch, to make certain Major Tarleton did not order Doctor McCoy moved. Though he still knew little of the strangers who had come to their town, they had more than proven their worth. If not for McCoy, Robert might well have been dead. It was the least he could do to take precautions to protect the older man. The rebel leader smiled. From what he had observed the navy physician held all life sacred and would fight to preserve it – even at the cost of his own.

As the town clock struck three in the morning, Jeremy returned to the door. Before the soldiers on guard could stop him, he raised his hand and struck it again. As if in answer, the British sergeant reappeared.

"Permission's been granted," he grunted. "Follow me."

Jeremy hesitated only a second. Though it was what he desired, once inside he would be at their mercy. Still, he had to see Robert and his father, had to learn what had happened and _why_ they had been taken.

"Thank you, sergeant," he said at last, and then followed the soldier inside.

The town hall had been converted to a headquarters for the British troops stationed in Chester while the town was under martial law. It's ground level rooms were being used as prison cells. The British sergeant led him through the building to a room on the back side. He drew a ring of keys from his coat pocket and inserted one into the chamber door's lock. Drawing his pistol with his other hand, the soldier aimed it Jeremy as he turned the key and opened the door.

"Inside!" he ordered.

Jeremy nodded and did as he was told.

The room was dark. Only one candle burned on a low table thrust haphazardly against an inner wall. A nest of blankets had been hastily arranged on the floor. One man lay on them. Another knelt beside him. As the door opened, that one rose to his feet. Jeremy heard his audible intake of breath upon seeing him.

"Good God! Jeremy, no!" his father exclaimed, his voice trembling with fear and outrage. "They have not taken you as well."

"No, Father," he hastened to assure him. "Major Tarleton was…kind enough to permit me to visit you." He took a step forward. "How is Robert?"

His father shook his head. "Failing."

Jeremy started to move, but then turned and looked at the sergeant. He hid the disgust in his voice. "May I go to my brother's side?"

In the pale moonlight that streamed in the window, the sergeant's face was unreadable. "The major said to give you all the time you wanted. I'll be outside." With that the soldier turned on his heel and exited the door. In the corridor he stopped. " _Right_ outside the door," he added, and then he closed it leaving them alone.

Jeremy scowled, deeply suspicious. Then he realized his father was watching him and he turned it into a look of distress. It was not much of an act. Robert was pale as fog and his breathing was quick and shallow. When he touched his brother's hand, he realized by its heat that some mortification had set in.

"Robert," he asked gently, "how are you?"

Robert moaned. He stirred slowly and his eyes opened with little focus. "Jeremy?"

"Aye, it is me."

"What are…you…doing here?"

"They let me come to see you."

Robert was silent for a moment. "Must have…a…reason."

"I wanted to see you – "

His brother gripped his hand. "No. Tarleton." Suddenly Robert's blue eyes were clear as a mountain stream. "You _cannot_ trust him."

"The man is evil, Jeremy," his father echoed. "Pure evil."

"Why are you here, Robert? And why Father? Does Tarleton know you are of Washington's army?"

"Aye." Robert drew a steadying breath. "Tarleton overheard me...speaking to McCoy. He knows I…meant to warn them."

"Dear God!"

"But there is _more!_ " Robert's grip tightened on his sleeve. "I have…failed in a…sacred trust." His brother's feverish eyes flicked to the closed door, and then to the window nearby. He shifted his hand to Jeremy's collar and forced him to lean in closer so he could lower his voice. " _Where_ is Paul? Is he safe?"

He did not wish to burden his brother. "Aye. He is with Isak and McCoy's captain."

Robert frowned, as if unsure of that answer. "You must keep him so. Promise me you will!"

"Certainly, I – "

"Jeremy, war is…a harsh master. It leaves no...time for a man to…be a boy." Robert's breathing was growing more labored. His body trembled as if in a mighty wind. "You must set aside all…foolishness and nonsense. The very _hope_ of the Cause may depend…on you."

"Robert, I don't understand." And then he did. Like a strike of lightning it hit him, searing into his soul the truth of his brother's words. "You mean Paul is La – "

Robert shook his head violently, as if to put it into words would compound the danger. Struck with the truth, Jeremy rocked back on his heels. He had heard the marquis was impulsive, but this underscored the word.

"It doesn't…matter what happens…to me, Jeremy." Robert's blue gaze settled on their father who was standing nearby them, lost in his own thoughts. "To…either of us. Paul _must_ be protected…and returned to where he belongs. And _soon_. Do you…understand?"

"Aye." Jeremy rose to his feet as his brother fell back to the blankets, exhausted. "And I will keep the trust."

"What is that?" their father asked as he came alongside him. The older man's eyes were bleary with pain and concern. "What has your brother asked of you? Not some _foolishness_ having to do with this war. I will not lose two sons to the Continental Congress' madness!"

"You will not lose either, sir," Jeremy assured him, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. "Not if _I_ have anything to say about it."

"I do not like the look in your eyes, Jeremiah…."

"Sir, I – "

The door behind them opened suddenly, startling them into silence. The British sergeant stepped in, his pistol raised. He pointed it at Jeremy and ordered.,

"You, sir, are to come with me!"

His father stepped before him. "You will leave my youngest out of this."

A shadow stirred in the corridor and another man appeared – a British officer with gold braid on his shoulders and sleeves. His insufferable arrogance proceeded him into the room.

"I am afraid, _old_ man, that he is already in the thick of it," Major Tarleton remarked. "Still, I am an open-minded man. Perhaps the apple _can_ fall somewhat far a field of the tree. From what I am told of this one, the Larkin backbone seems to be missing. I think, in order to save his scrawny neck from the noose – as well as your own – that Master _Jeremiah_ will tell me all I wish to know.

"Bring him!"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Kirk's hazel eyes darted to the starboard rail. For a moment, he considered joining Spock with the fishes. But that would do nothing to save the two men who were with him and he knew now that, whatever it took, he certainly _had_ to save them.

Lafayette! What was the young major general doing in an occupied town?

The Frenchman had not moved. A frown creased his brow. "You know me, _Capitaine_ Brighton. Should I know you?"

"I'm English, Frenchman, that's all you need to know."

The enmity between the two men's countries was centuries old. Kirk had studied all the battles. Captain Abel Brighton looked like he meant to relive them all right here, right now. Kirk loosed himself from the seaman's grip and moved to Paul – to the marquis' side.

"We should go. Now!" he said sharply.

Lafayette glanced at him. "What about your friend?"

"He's gone. Over the side. We have to get you out of here _now_."

Every inch of the man was aristocratic. So was the cool, calm look he directed his way. Kirk cursed himself for a _fool_ for not seeing it before. The Frenchman's upper lip curled with a fierce smile. "I have not yet begun to fight."

"'Those that fly may fight again, which he can never do that's slain'," Kirk quoted as he caught the other man's arm and pulled him back. Then he shouted, "Isak, cover the captain until I have the – until we're clear."

A thin row of angry seamen watched them closely, but none were willing to risk their captain's life. Brighton had not named the Frenchman and that might have bought them a little time. If they knew…. Well, it might be the Englishman sleeping with the fishes instead of him.

Or Spock.

God, he hoped the Vulcan had survived.

Lafayette had begun to back away, but unwillingly, as if it were not in him to retreat – even in the face of insurmountable odds.

"Sir," Kirk said, acknowledging the other man's superior rank. "You will not serve General Washington by dying in obscurity on the deck of a small packet ship in Chester harbor. There are greater things in store for you."

The Frenchman's brown eyes darted to his face. " _Certainment?"_

He put every bit of his future knowledge into the word. "Yes."

They had reached Isak. The black man moved in front of them as they continued to retreat toward the gangboard. Kirk didn't know if the blacksmith knew who the Frenchman was, but it didn't seem to matter. Isak Poole was willing to die to clear their way.

These were good men.

Kirk glanced at the wharf. Fortunately the British patrol had moved away. With any luck, the soldiers were at the other end of the pier. The wooden walkway beside the water was crowded with people. It wouldn't be too hard to disappear. Catching Lafayette's arm, he propelled him down the nearly perpendicular plank. Just as they reached the dock, there was a loud noise – something like an explosion. Shouts of alarm and the cry of 'fire' rent the air.

A moment later, a grinning Isak Poole appeared at their side.

"What was that?" Kirk asked him as the stench of sulfur and other combustible materials filled the shipyard's air.

"One of Henry's special recipes," the black man grinned. "A shame…. I don't think Captain Brighton much likes American cuisine."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Elizabeth Coates eyes flew open. Panic gripped her. Her chest felt like someone was sitting on it. She couldn't breathe, couldn't draw a breath, _couldn't_ –

"Miss Coates, you are safe," a calm voice broke into her hysteria. Gentle hands firmly held her down as she continued to struggle. "There is no need to be afraid."

A violent fit of coughing seized her. One of the man's hands moved to her head, cradling it, and offering support. She turned her face away from him toward the ground, retching, as brackish water was expelled from her lungs. The man's silent support anchored her. Even though every breath was an agony, she fought to take each one; fighting to draw clean air into her lungs. After a moment it became easier. The agony paled into a dull ache that throbbed through her prone form, leaving her exhausted.

"Thank you," she said, her voice less than the brush of a leaf on stone.

The hand returned to her forehead as if checking it for fever. Then it descended to the cloth covering her upper torso and tucked the thick fabric about her shivering frame. "I regret I cannot do more," the even voice replied. "The night is chill and, as we are both soaked through, a fire would be most advantageous – unfortunately, it is also _quite_ inadvisable."

Elizabeth blinked. Her shaking fingers prowled the edge of the covering. It was a man's coat. She shifted so she could look at the one who spoke. He immediately rose and moved out of her field of vision.

"Master Spock?" she asked, beginning to remember.

"I apologize for our most hasty and reckless mode of escape. I could see no other alternative. The unfortunate circumstance of the bullet striking your forehead engendered consequences I had not foreseen."

Elizabeth raised her hand to find her head had been bandaged. "I was shot?" she asked, incredulous.

"Grazed. The wound is not deep, nor is it threatening." She almost heard a sigh. "Unfortunately, the concussive effect drove you deep into the water and, as my aquatic skills leave much to be desired, it was some time before I was able to extricate you."

The brown-haired woman couldn't help it. In spite of everything, she smiled. " _Aquatic_ skills?"

"I do not swim well," he admitted. "Where I come from there is little need for it."

"Where _do_ you…come from?" she asked languidly. Now that she was over the shock of waking, Elizabeth found she was extremely tired.

His booted feet moved past her. "Far away."

As best she could, Elizabeth followed Spock's long, lean form with her eyes. The morning light was breaking and she could just make him out against a background of trees. He was dressed only in his shirt, breeches and boots now, having lent his coat to her. He had to be freezing. It was only early September in Pennsylvania, but so far the autumn held the promise of a hard, cold winter to come. As Spock turned to look back at her, she noticed something was different. It took her a moment and then she knew what it was. His wig was gone. Unlike most men who wore them, his head was not shaved. A gentle fringe of black hair fell across his forehead now; the length of it barely brushing the nape of his neck.

When he realized she was watching, Spock stepped into the shadows. "You should get some sleep, Miss Coates," he said.

"Elizabeth," she corrected.

She _felt_ more than saw the nod. "Elizabeth."

The brown-haired woman closed her eyes and, for a moment, thought she _could_ do as he asked. But the sense of barely having escaped death kept sleep at bay. "Where are we?" she asked him a moment later.

"I would calculate some one half mile downstream."

"Toward Marcus Hook?"

Spock's voice spoke from the shadows. "I would not know. Is that a town? Would it prove a wise course to make for there?"

"It's a couple of miles away, and the redcoats patrol the roads in and out of Chester. If they are…looking for you, no, it wouldn't be smart."

He hesitated. "But would there be someone there who could look after _you?"_

"Are you tired of me already?" she asked, only a little exasperated. And mostly at her own weakness.

"I beg your pardon?" Spock seemed genuinely confused.

She laughed. "I'm sorry. It's just that, when a man asks if there is someone else who can look after a woman, it usually means he's weary of being with her."

"There is no need to apologize." The man in the shadows paused. "My…culture is somewhat different. We say what we mean."

"And mean what you say?"

"Indeed."

Elizabeth laid her head back and closed her eyes. "Then you _must_ be from far away."

Again there was a pause. "Elizabeth, do you feel well enough to travel?"

She listened to the blood pounding through her wounded head for a moment and then sighed. "No, but I know that we must."

"Can you walk?"

She frowned. There was an odd edge to Spock's voice. Was it…fear? No. More apprehension. "I don't know. I think so. Why?"

"I did not escape our prison break unscathed. I have the strength to carry you, but such a course might prove inexpedient. The projectile lodged in my shoulder could move at any time; the results of which might leave me incapable of rendering you further assistance."

He said it so calmly that, for a moment, she didn't realize what he meant.

"You've been shot!" she exclaimed.

"Elizabeth, it would be efficacious to speak with a reduced level of volume."

She sat up and stared at him. Maddeningly, he was still a pale shadow backed by black trees. "Why didn't you say something earlier? I've treated gunshot wounds." She began to toss off his coat. "Let me help."

"Remain where you are." Spock's voice carried the tone of command. "I would not want you to be frightened."

 _Frightened?_

"Of you?" she asked. "How could I be frightened of you? You saved my life."

"There are certain things spoken of in the philosophy of the time – witches, warlocks, demons, and such. What is your view on their existence?"

Startled by the change of subject, she hesitated. "The church says they are real," she answered at last.

"And what do _you_ say?"

"I don't believe in them." Elizabeth drew a breath. "Why do you ask?"

"Suppose these creatures are not fictitious, but merely something _other_ than what you know. Not evil or belonging to your mythical Devil, but a _different_ reality." He paused. "Can you accept this concept?"

"You mean, from another place?"

Spock moved slightly closer. His voice was deep, low, and in earnest. "I mean from another world."

"Like the one some men think is within this one?" she asked, her voice hushed.

There was a second or two of silence. "Ah, the Hollow Earth theory. Yes, like that."

Henry had explained it to her one day when rain had been pouring and they had had nothing else to do. Over one hundred years before, Edmund Halley had put forth the idea of the Earth consisting of a hollow shell about five hundred miles thick, with two inner concentric shells and an innermost core, about the diameters of the planets Venus, Mars, and Mercury. Very learned men subscribed to Halley's theory. Even Henry did not dismiss it entirely.

Elizabeth licked her lips. "So you are saying you are from this _inner_ world?"

"I am saying, I am not from _your_ world."

She had begun to tremble. She didn't for one moment believe what Spock was saying, but she wondered now if his wound – and their near drowning – hadn't left him a bit _touched._ Maybe if she called his bluff.

"All right. Prove it then."

This time he _did_ sigh. "Very well. Please take a moment to prepare yourself."

"I'm all right," she snapped. "You act like I am some unweaned –"

Elizabeth stopped. She gasped, and fell silent.

The man standing before her was not a _man_ at all. The dawning light lent a hellish cast to features taken straight from the pages of her Bible primer. She had noted before the curious upward cast of Spock's eyebrows, but had dismissed it, telling herself that a difference that didn't _make_ a difference was unimportant. Now she understood. The ink black slashes echoed the shape of his ears, which were pointed as Lucifer's. But that wasn't the worst of it. For the first time she could see clearly the trail of blood that ran down his left cheek, spilling onto his linen shirt that was stained with even more of the stuff.

The dark _emerald green_ stuff.

After a moment he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern. "Miss Coates, are you all right?"

Some children filled their waking hours with dreams of such creatures, with faeries and hobgoblins, brownies and sprites. The Irish spoke of the little people, who were sometimes cruel, and other times very generous beings about four feet tall. And there were those who believed in ghosts; in spirits returned from the dead. She wasn't one of them. Her feet had always been firmly planted on the ground.

Until now.

"Y-yes," she lied.

Spock hesitated. He approached and knelt at her side, allowing her to take a good look before speaking. "Am I not the same man I was ten minutes ago?" he asked quietly. With a glance at the green stains on his shirt sleeve, he asked, "To paraphrase Shakespeare, if you prick me do I not bleed?"

She frowned. "But it's…green."

"Yes. My blood is based on a different element from yours. But it is still blood. If I lose enough of it, I will die just like you. In many ways, I am _just_ like you." Spock's lips pursed and he shook his head. "I would have spared you this, but in the absence of a disguise or alternative clothes, there was no way to do so."

"Why are you here?" she asked, her voice hushed.

"To prevent a miscarriage of justice. A man from…my world has come here to cause harm. I and my friends have come to take him back."

"Does he look like you?" she asked in wonder.

"No. He is human."

"There are humans in the center of the Earth?"

Spock rose to his feet. "There are humans everywhere. Miss Coates, may I assist you to your feet?"

She noticed he had returned to addressing her formally, as if his revelation had rescinded her permission to be familiar with her.

"Elizabeth," she repeated.

His near black eyes shone with something akin to gratititude. "Elizabeth," he said. Then he extended his hand.

She steeled herself to take it and was moderately surprised when his flesh failed to feel even _slightly_ alien. The only thing she noted was that he was hot to the touch, like someone who was fevered. And maybe he was.

"How do you feel?" she asked as he steadied her.

"I am functional."

"That is _not_ an answer."

Spock seemed to think about it. "I am able to continue. That is the only answer I can give."

"I see men are still _men_ wherever you come from," she replied as she took her first hesitant step. She was pleasantly surprised to find she did not fall down.

"How is that?" Spock asked.

"You are _all_ stubborn as mules."

Spock's face remained impassive, but his dark eyes sparkled with something close to amusement. "My mother has been known, on occasion, to embrace the same philosophy."

Elizabeth stared at him. He had a mother. And, no doubt, a father too. Spock was the man she had rescued from the _Beagl_ e. He was the one who had risked his life to pull her from the water. This curious creature had friends who were worried about him and those who would mourn his death, just as she did.

What did it matter the color of his blood or the shape of his ears?

Gripping his hand, she stooped and caught his coat from the ground. "Here. You'd best put this on and cover that shirt. You can wash your face, and a bandage will cover both the wound and the tips of your ears." She grinned at his expression. "Then you will look quite presentable."

As he accepted the coat, Spock said softly, "Elizabeth, may I say that you are a remarkable young woman."

His words brought a blush to her cheeks. "No, really…."

"Yes. Really. I will not allow you to denegrate yourself concerning your ability to accept and adapt to untested and completely _unexpected_ conditions. For someone of your era…area, it _is_ truly remarkable."

Elizabeth noted as he struggled into the coat, that Spock could not completely conceal the pain he was in. She gripped one side of the garment and held it as he worked his injured shoulder into it. Then she assisted him in tying a bandage about his head. The wound on his temple was still bleeding, so it wouldn't be long before there was something _else_ to hide, but for now it would do. Maybe by then they could find him a new hat or wig.

"Now, as I said, we should be on our way…." Spock's voice trailed off and his dark eyes took on a distant look.

"What? What is it?"

"We are being watched," he told her.

"Watched?"

"Yes. There are men." His gaze shifted to the bank of darkness cast by the trees lining the river. "There. A half dozen or so."

"Redcoats?" she gasped.

"Unknown, but likely." Spock gripped her arm. "Come, perhaps we can – "

"Halt! Take one more step and you're a dead man," a strident voice proclaimed even as a young man emerged from the cover of the trees. He was dressed as a frontiersman and was gazing down the barrel of a very long, very deadly looking rifle at them. "That goes for you as well, miss, though I don't hold with shooting no woman."

"Let her go then," Spock said instantly.

Elizabeth frowned at him. "Let us _both_ go, or tell us what we have done!"

The man continued forward. He was young – perhaps twenty at most. "Maybe nothing, miss. Maybe a lot. Can't take no chances these days. You two just stay right where you are until the sergeant gets here."

The soldier didn't _sound_ English. Still, she couldn't be certain whose side he was on. There were plenty of Loyalists in the Chester area fiercely tied to the king. If this was one of them, and he and his sergeant took them hostage…. Her gaze moved to Spock. He stood at ease at her side, his angular face impassive. There were many who would not be as tolerant as she. Some who, if they knew _what_ he was, would kill him on sight.

They had to get away.

Elizabeth placed a hand to her head, touching the place where it was bandaged. She allowed a little moan to escape her lips. "Please," she whispered, "tell me what this is about. I don't feel at all well."

"Are you all right, miss?"

"She has been shot," Spock replied. "It is doubtful she will be able to keep her feet."

Elizabeth hid her smile. He caught on fast.

She swayed and then pretended her knees were giving way. "Oh," she moaned as she started her descent to the ground. As Spock knelt beside her, the young man frowned. The soldier blew out air and screwed up his mouth. The flintlock rifle wavered and then he lowered it to the ground. A second later he was at her side, offering to help her up. Elizabeth felt guilty deceiving him, but there was little choice. As she watched, Spock reached out and caught the young man's shoulder between his fingers as she had seen him do before, and applied pressure – and then gently lowered the unconscious youth to the ground.

Spock nodded to her and then reached for the soldier's gun. A loud report and a ball cutting into the earth scant inches from his fingers stopped him.

They both looked up to find a sandy-haired man in a frontiersman's fringed leather jacket staring at them. He was backed by a half-dozen men in uniform.

 _Continental_ uniforms.

"I'm Sergeant Daniel Boggs," the man reported gruffly. "Who in the _blazes_ are you?"


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Henry Abington was cold. And he was alone, which he didn't like very much. Having left Isak at the wharf, and having seen Jeremy off to beard the British lions in their den, he felt quite deserted. He had been cast in the role of watchman and was jolly well attempting to make the best of it, but he was tired and hungry and there was the _most_ delicious smell coming out of Jeremy's home. Mutton, roasted and larded, with just the hint of chicory. Henry drew it in like ambrosia.

He raised his arm and wiped his chin with the lace on the edge of his sleeve. It was very undignified to drool.

Before they parted on the dock, Jeremy had made him swear to keep a watch on his house. As Captain Yankee Doodle, the determined blond man wanted to know every time Major Tarleton sneezed and just where the British officer kept his handkerchief afterward. As the youngest son of a violated household, Jeremy wanted to exact some form of payment for the injustice done to his brother and father. As a man who owed a debt, the rebel leader insisted on knowing that the kind stranger who had tended his brother was protected. The man was a doctor and so, _doubly_ important to them. First, for their honor, and secondly – should they be able to free Robert –a true medical man who had completed at least two years' course of studies and, at the age Leonard McCoy appeared to be, had a lifetime more experience than this humble apothecary – could do much to save him.

And so, here he sat. Cold. Lonely. Hungry.

No. Not hungry.

 _Starved._

Henry drew a deep breath and released it slowly, once again toying with an idea that had sprung to mind as he watched Major Tartleton exit the home a quarter of an hour earlier, leaving only a small contingent of soldiers behind – and a very _young_ contingent at that. Younger than him, in fact. There were three remaining; all with faces to rival the cherubim seated at the feet of the Almighty. The oldest could have been no more than eighteen. Apparently the good doctor was not deemed much of a threat. But then most men of medicine were men of peace. Or at least, so it seemed. Henry knew _he_ was – for the most part – unless pressed into action to defend what he held dear. He imagined Dr. McCoy was the same.

Hopefully the good doctor was also a perceptive man and one who could follow a lead….

Henry stood up. He loosened his cravat and unwound it until it hung halfway down to his knees. He retied the black ribbon that held it, leaving it akimbo. He loosed his hair so it fell about his shoulders and then effected a distracted look. Glancing at the shop window near him, he assessed his condition. Good, but not grand. Dipping to the ground, Henry palmed a handful of dusty dirt that he applied to his breeches and boots, so it looked as if he had been some time on the road. Finally satisfied, he walked a crooked line across the street, heading directly for the young private who kept watch outside the Larkin's door.

"I say!" Henry called, his voice strained with mock fatigue and care. "I say! Young sir, is Doctor McCoy within this house?"

The soldier raised his weapon. "This house is under martial law. You will turn and walk away."

"But I have to see Dr. McCoy! My wife's time has come. Sir! Sir, please!" Henry stumbled forward as if exhausted. As he spoke, he raised his voice until it was near hysterical. "He is her attending physician. The babe is turned! She could die!"

"I can't do anything about that – "

"Good God, sir! _Do you want my wife to die?"_ Henry shouted.

"Of course not." The young man flushed with anger and embarrassment. "But Major Tarleton said no one should approach this house. I have my – "

"Private Dukes! What is all this ruckus?" a new voice demanded. Another of the soldiers poked his head out of the door of Jeremy's home. He looked about two days older than the first, but had managed to make it to lieutenant.

"Sir. Are you in command here?" Henry asked, his voice trembling.

"I am Lieutenant Lightfoot, and I am in command until the major's return," the man replied, drawing up to his full but rather limited height. "What is this all about?"

"My wife, sir. Dr. McCoy is her physician. He _must_ come. She is at her time and the babe is turned and – "

Lightfoot scowled. "A man to deliver a child? Is this some strange colonial notion? Where is your midwife, sir?"

Henry thought fast. "My wife is delicate. She is an English flower, sir, a veritable child. Her father is kin to old gentleman Johnny. Dr. McCoy was retained as a man midwife to see that she does not lose this babe as she has the others – "

"Your wife is kin to General Burgoyne?" the lieutenant asked as the color drained out of his face.

Henry looked stricken. "She would chastise me severally, sir, if she knew I had mentioned it. But I am distraught. If you cannot allow the doctor to leave, will you at least permit me to _speak_ to him? Perhaps there is some advice or some remedy he can give me."

Lightfoot frowned. "I…don't…know…."

"Sir, examine me." Henry flung his arms wide. "Search me for weapons, I have none! I have nothing but a heart close to breaking, and the minutest hope that you gentlemen will exercise Christian charity and allow me to consult with my wife's physician."

"But he's a Yank. What would Burgoyne have to do with a – "

"Dr. McCoy is graduated from Oxford, Lt. Lightfoot, and a dear friend of the family," Henry sniffed with indignation. He drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. "The doctor may have a few radical ideas, but that is often the case with medical men. Life is sacred to them above all else. Now, if it please you, sir. May I see Dr. McCoy?"

The lieutenant gazed at him a moment longer as if uncertain. Then he drew his pistol and waved him in with it.

Henry thanked him profusely.

Now on to step two.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Leonard McCoy looked up from his untouched plate of food to find a blubbering, chubby auburn-haired man being admitted to the house. He was thankful for the distraction. He and the two soldiers had been sitting in stony silence while the English men ate the Larkin's food and drank their wine. As the surgeon rose from his chair and rounded the table, the auburn-haired man caught his eye, burst into an incoherent babble of words – which included the terms 'my dear friend' and 'wife's man midwife' – and then rushed over to him. McCoy stiffened as the man embraced him and kissed him on first one cheek and then the other.

Somewhere in-between the newcomer whispered, "My name is Henry Abington. _For God's sake, sir, play along!"_

He didn't have to be told twice. "Henry!" McCoy beamed, and then grew suddenly serious. "Has her time come? Is that why you are here?"

"Yes! And the babe is turned." Henry dabbed his forehead with a clean part of the handkerchief. "I fear for dear Kate. If _only_ you could be by her side."

McCoy cast an angry glance at the lieutenant who was watching them closely. "I am the _guest_ of King George and his army and, as such, cannot go anywhere."

"I know. I know. These gentlemen," with a nod of his head Henry indicated the lieutenant and the private who had followed him inside, "have kindly consented to allow me to speak to you. Perhaps there is some remedy, some medicinal herb you can give me? Something to ease her pain and the babe's entrance into the world? Have you anything in your bag?"

McCoy stiffened. The question was as loaded as the lieutenant's pistol. He wondered if the auburn-haired man somehow knew what he carried. Besides the phaser power pack, he had enough charges for the hypospray to put the entire British army to sleep. If Jim knew, he would have been furious. But caution be _damned,_ he had not been about to step back into the 18th century unprepared!

"I think I might have something to ease her pain." McCoy glared at the lieutenant. "May I go upstairs and get my bag?"

"He stays here," Lightfoot retorted.

Henry bowed. "Of course."

McCoy took the steps two at a time. Upstairs was the remaining soldier. He nodded at the young man who was keeping watch out a second story window. "Getting my bag," he said as he entered the room he occupied. The soldier glanced at him, but went back to his duty without a word. The surgeon crossed the room quickly and picked up the black cloth bag. He glanced behind to make certain he was not being watched and then palmed one of the hyposprays as well as an extra vial of the drug it held. As he exited the room, he paused at the young man's side.

"Seen any pretty girls out there, son?" he asked conversationally.

The man gave him a look that would have made Spock proud.

A second later McCoy was lowering him to the floor.

Returning the hypospray to his bag, the surgeon pulled the soldiers' unconscious form into one of the upstairs rooms and closed the door. Then, just as he heard Lt. Lightfoot call his name, he skipped down the stairs, bag in hand.

"Sorry. I'd misplaced it. Left it under the bed. Hadn't had a need for it until now," he said, holding the black bag aloft.

As he placed it on a table and undid the clasp, McCoy heard the _click_ of a flintlock rifle _._ "Remember, Doctor. I have you covered," Lightfoot said.

"I'm a doctor not a damned rebel," he cursed softly. "Henry, come here."

The auburn-haired man did as he was asked. "Yes?"

McCoy handed him the vial, hoping the Lucite container would not seem too out of place. "Now, son, you put one or two drops of this in your wife's tea and it will help her rest. Three or four, if she needs to _sleep_." The surgeon's crisp blue eyes flicked first to the soldiers, and then to the table where their unfinished meal awaited their return. "It has no taste. She won't know it's there. But it will bring her relief."

McCoy waited to see if the young man understood what he was suggesting. For a moment it seemed he did not. Then, a light entered his eyes and he nodded eagerly, "Yes, yes, I see. Dr. McCoy, I am most grateful. I…." Henry staggered. He placed a hand to his head and then looked up sharply. "Oh dear, I feel I might faint…."

The starship surgeon caught him. "You!" he snapped at Lightfoot. "Help him to a seat at the table." The lieutenant responded to the command tone and did as he was told, and then scowled angrily as McCoy knelt before Henry. "How long since you have eaten, son?"

"I don't know. This morning?"

"Well, you will do your wife no good if you faint on the way home. Here, you can have my supper." McCoy glanced at Lightfoot. "I have no appetite."

"Doctor, this is most improper!" the British officer protested.

"What are you, some _inhuman_ monster?" the surgeon exclaimed, seeming to grow hot. As he raised his voice, he moved to block the lieutenant's view of Henry and the table. "Lt. Lightfoot, you are a disgrace to both King George and that uniform!"

 _Hot_ was definitely what Lt. Lightfoot grew. McCoy saw it coming, but failed on purpose to step out of the way. As the butt of the lieutenant's pistol contacted his chin and drove him to the floor, he saw – out of the corner of his eye – Henry emptying the contents of the vial into the two soldiers' wine glasses.

"I have killed men for less!" Lightfoot snarled. "If you were not a physician…."

McCoy was massaging his jaw. "Lieutenant," he began, employing a chagrinned tone, "forgive me. When God made me, he must have mixed in a portion of _ass._ I'm afraid I just don't know when to stop."

Lightfoot looked _barely_ mollified. "I don't know…."

McCoy slowly climbed to his feet. He held out his hand. "I ask for your forgiveness. No hard feelings?"

The officer glared at him, but he seemed satisfied. "Take a seat at the table, Doctor. You need not eat, but I consider it prudent to keep you in my sight."

He shrugged. "No problem. Actually, I'll take some wine."

As McCoy slid into one of the chairs, he glanced at Henry. The auburn-haired man was poker-faced. Henry reached out and took hold of the wine glass before him and sipped it. Then he dove into the plate of food with relish.

The surgeon tried not to look, but it was damned difficult. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the private take a sip of his wine. Lightfoot ate hearty of his mutton and washed it down with the whole glass. As he prompted the private to do the same, the British officer rose to get another bottle.

"But Sir, I am on duty," the young man protested.

"Spoils of war, Dukes. Might as well enjoy yourself tonight." Lightfoot's gaze flicked to his captive guests. "Tomorrow will test our mettle."

Dukes nodded. "Aye, sir." And then he finished his wine.

Two minutes later both men were laying with their heads on the table, snoring.

Henry finished his meal and wiped his lips. Then he grinned broadly. "Dr. McCoy," he said rising, "allow me to formally introduce myself. Henry Abington, Chester's apothecary. This was brilliant, sir!" He indicated the two unconscious soldiers. "Simply brilliant! You must tell me how you did it."

McCoy cleared his throat. Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid wouldn't be discovered or used for legitimate purposes for centuries. What could he say?

The surgeon paused and then he grinned broadly as he waggled his fingers.

"Magic!"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So, young sir," Major Tarleton said as he rounded his desk and stopped directly before Jeremy. "Tell me what is on your mind."

The rebel leader effected a lazy stance that suggested he was bored, but his mind was racing with possibilities. What did Tarleton want with him? What game was the major playing?

"My mind, sir? Why, concern for my brother and father."

"And yourself?"

He shrugged. "A little."

"Only a little?" Tarleton's eyes were fixed on him, as if he would read the matter behind them.

"I have done nothing wrong, sir."

"Except be born into a family of traitors!" the major snapped.

Jeremy's jaw tightened. He turned it to his advantage. "I am no _traitor_ , sir."

"What? You do not subscribe to your father and brother's treachery?"

"My father, sir, loves my brother. _That_ is his only crime. When it comes to this war, he takes no side. As for Robert," he paused and added a note of pain, "he is misguided, but he is my brother and I love him."

"Ah. You are not a member of Washington's army then?"

"Good God! No, sir. Ask anyone about the town." The blond man grinned. "All they will say of Jeremy Larkin is that he is not a member of _anything,_ unless it be the club of social scandal."

"It is true," Tarleton said, pulling at his chin with his long fingers. "You are a wastrel and a profligate from all accounts. As such, would you be interested in undertaking an assignment that would bring you some capital, as well as freeing your father?"

"What about Robert?"

"He is an enemy soldier and a traitor to his kind." The major thought a moment. "I can promise to attempt to send him to a prison camp instead of executing him, but that is the best I can do."

Jeremy appeared to think it over. "Will it be dangerous?" he asked at last, as if fearing it might be so.

Tarleton looked disgusted. "I doubt it."

"What is it you want me to do?"

The British officer moved back to his desk and took a seat behind it. "Did you meet the man your brother brought to town? The…university student?"

"The Frenchman, you mean? Aye, sir." Where was this leading, Jeremy wondered? Did Tarleton suspect that Paul was Lafayette?

"He is a known enemy to the king. I want him." Tarleton leaned back in his chair. "You will bring him to me."

"Me, sir? How?"

"Offer to buy him a drink, for God's sake. Find him a _whore_ or whatever else would interest a frog who is barely more than a boy." Tarleton sneered. "Whatever would interest you, _boy_."

"If I find him, where would I bring him? Here?"

"No. No, not here. This place is no doubt known and watched. No, we'll set a rendezvous outside of town." Tarleton looked sly. "Say, the footbridge near Chadd's Ford."

What was happening, or about to happen at the ford, Jeremy wondered? Could this have to do with Robert's fear that a battle was imminent?

"I know it, sir."

"Good." Tarleton rose and came to face him. "You will find this Frenchman and deliver him to the Ford before sunrise if you want your father and brother to live. And boy," the major caught his arm and pressed his flesh hard, "if you betray me they will die instantly – and _most_ unpleasantly. And then you will be next. Do I make myself clear?"

Jeremy swallowed hard, mostly, but not entirely in pretense. Tarleton was cruelty itself wrapped up in crimson cloth. "Aye, sir."

"Good." The major snapped his fingers and the door to his office opened. Six British soldiers stepped smartly inside. "These men will accompany you. They will watch your every move, young Larkin. If there is the slightest _hint_ of duplicity…." Tarleton left the sentence unfinished.

He didn't need to finish it. Jeremy understood all too well.

What he didn't know, was how he was going to save both General Lafayette _and_ his kin.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Henry! Step back!" McCoy whispered it fiercely. They had just arrived at the town hall where the British soldiers were holding Jeremy Larkin's family when the door opened and two guards stepped outside. They were quickly followed by four more and a young blond man who seemed not to be under arrest, but a part of the group.

He heard the apothecary's sharp intact of breath.

"That's Larkin, isn't it?" McCoy asked.

Henry nodded. "Aye."

The surgeon watched the advancing men a moment. They were laughing and joking – Jeremy Larkin included. "He seems awfully chummy with the British," he remarked.

"It is an act, sir," Henry protested, though McCoy thought he could sense a note of uncertainty in his voice.

He thought of Jim and Spock. If they were being held – on threat of death – what would _he_ not be capable of? And this was a _young_ man, unseasoned. Still, he said nothing more.

"So what do we do now? Go after Jeremy, or try to free his father and brother?" McCoy asked.

Henry thought a moment. "The latter I would say. If we free Samuel and Robert, there will be no more need for Jeremy's charade."

It made sense. "All right. I'm in. How?"

"Let us see if we can find Isak," the apothecary answered, his eyes still pursuing his friend. "If fortune shines on us, with his help, I think we can drive the rats from their hole."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Sergeant Daniel Boggs stared in amazement at the catch his foray through the woods outside Chester had netted. They had been heading for the village, intent on finding the missing Robert Larkin and the French youth, Lafayette. Instead, they had caught a young woman barely past a girl and, well, he wasn't sure exactly what _else_ they had caught. It was obvious the ebon-haired stranger was military in the way he held himself, and in the manner that he withstood, and responded to questioning. His quiet confidence and mask-like face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. The only time a flicker of emotion had crossed the man's face was when Boggs had ordered the young woman – Elizabeth Coates, she said she was – to be taken to the medical tent so the camp's surgeon could look at her.

The stranger had appeared gratified.

Boggs circled him now, taking note of his clothing. The style and cut of his breeches and shirt indicated some amount of wealth. The seaman's coat most likely was stolen. From what the woman had said, they had escaped from a British ship and were on the run. If he hadn't known better, Boggs would have thought the man _was_ British – his use of the language was impeccable, easily outshining even His Excellency's. But there was no accent, and no arrogance.

Well, Boggs thought as he came around and looked into his captive's serene face, maybe just a _hint_ of arrogance _._

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Boggs asked for the third time.

"Further questioning will elicit no other response than the one I have given you. I am Spock. I came to Chester in search of a colleague."

"What is his name?"

"Happer Clayworth."

Boggs had never heard of the man. "Did you come alone?"

"No. There are two others."

"Where are they?"

The man's near-black eyes met his. "I do not know."

"You expect me to believe that?" Boggs challenged.

"It is the truth. It makes no difference to me whether you believe it or not."

 _Maddening._ That was good description of this one. Boggs stifled a sigh. "What were you doing in the woods at this hour of the morning?"

"As Miss Coates informed you, I was taken prisoner and incarcerated on a ship harbored on the Delaware. The young woman helped to effect an escape, during which time she was wounded. I escaped with her from the water, coming ashore close to where you found us."

"What ship was it?"

"The _Beagle_."

There was no hesitation. Boggs was inclined to believe him. But there was _something._ The man was just…odd. He looked at him again. Spock stood at attention with his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders slightly at ease, as if it were the most natural pose. The sergeant's eyes traveled over his prisoner's lean frame, to his somewhat severe face and short, ebon hair. The bandage on Spock's head covered his forehead and the tips of his ears. There was a dark stain on it as there was on his coat. Probably blood, though the dried color of it was odd. If it hadn't been for the fact that there was so much at risk – when General Washington had found out that no one knew where the French marquis was, the explosion of his anger had rocked the entire corps – he would have simply let the man and the woman go. But he couldn't. Not until he understood completely who they were.

Boggs pulled a chair away from his field desk and sat in it. When he spoke, his voice was infinitely weary. "Look, Master Spock, I would like to believe you, but there is too much at stake. You will have to give me something more to make me trust you."

The tall, alien looking man gazed at him serenely. "I am afraid there is little I can offer you, Sergeant Boggs. I was only in Chester a matter of hours before being abducted."

"Where did it happen?"

"I believe the establishment has the curious appellation of 'Old Man Morris' inn'."

"The crimpers' place?" Boggs asked, surprised. "Whatever made you go into that den of iniquity?"

One black slash of a brow lifted. "Thirst?"

Boggs actually laughed. "You are a cool one. You know that?"

There was amusement in the dark stare. "Indeed. I have been frequently informed that this is true."

"Tell me who and what you saw there." Boggs had been in Chester many times, reconnoitering. He had been in that inn and watched the queen of it – Maeve McGinnis – ply her various wares. God would reserve a special place in hell for that one, he thought, peopled by the families she had torn apart and the men she had sent to their deaths.

"The usual flotsam and jetsam of humanity," Spock remarked. "The man, Morris, and…Maeve McGinnis…."

Did Boggs detect a note of embarrassment in that usually unflappable tone? "Go on."

"There was a shadowy man near the counter, whom I believe was one of the men who kidnapped me." He paused as if reviewing a book page by page. "There were four British soldiers. Redcoats, I believe you call them. And a Frenchman accompanied by an American soldier out of uniform."

"A Frenchman?" Boggs stiffened. To hide his interest, he added, "And how do you know the man who was with him was _out_ of uniform?"

Spock's head tilted. "I presume, by your method of questioning, that you have drawn the same conclusion about me – that I am a man of the service, dressed as a civilian."

The sandy-haired man leaned back. He nodded. "Yes, I have. It isn't 'Master Spock' is it? It's – "

"Commander."

"Navy then? What ship?"

Was there a note of longing in that even tone? "Once of the _Enterprise_ , though I and my comrades no longer serve the king," Spock answered.

"A fine ship from what I hear." Quite impressive, Boggs thought. "You said there were others with you?"

He nodded. "My captain, and the ship's surgeon. I imagine they are searching for me even now."

"Yes. But back to this Frenchman. Can you describe him?"

"Tall. Lean, with an aristocratic bearing. A somewhat pallid complexion, accented by dark brown hair and eyes." The commander paused. "Someone _you_ are searching for?"

Boggs permitted himself a sigh. "Dear God, yes. So he was still in Chester…. When were you taken?"

"Early yesterday. Before noon."

"More than twelve hours ago." Boggs rose to his feet. "But it is the first lead we have had."

"He is important." It was a statement, not a question.

"To His Excellency, yes. And perhaps to the Cause."

"Would this be the Marquis de Lafayette we are speaking of?"

The question surprised the sandy-haired man. "Why would you think that? There are many Frenchmen in the colonies."

Spock's upper lip quirked in the slightest imitation of a smile. "Not many who are dear to General Washington." When Boggs failed to reply, the commander continued. "I have certain…skills. Allow me to assist you in your search."

"Skills?"

The man hesitated. Something flashed through his eyes. Again, it appeared as if he was paging through a book. Then he said, "If you will take me back to the tavern, I might be able to…elicit information from one of the patrons who were in attendance yesterday."

"How?"

Spock drew a breath. "Sergeant, have you heard of the Committee of Secret Correspondence?"

Boggs swallowed. He had. "Yes."

"Then you know what I have sworn, that I will not directly or indirectly divulge any manner or thing which shall come to my knowledge."

He knew the words. They were the ones sworn to by Congress and by any man working in the intelligence community. General Washington had many such spies whose methods were, to say the least, suspect if not at time downright unprincipled.

"Your methods…."

" _Must_ remain secret."

The sergeant ran a hand over his chin. It was a judgment call and he knew it. Out here, there was no one but him to make the decision – a decision that might well mean the difference between life and death for the young Frenchman.

Boggs moved even closer. Commander Spock did not flinch. "Master Spock, can I trust you?" the sergeant asked simply.

The dark head tilted and one black ink-slash brow lifted.

"Sergeant Boggs, can you afford _not_ to?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

James T. Kirk breathed a sigh of relief. They had escaped the docks and headed to a small farm outside of Chester owned by someone named John Coates. Apparently it was a prearranged meeting place for the three young men they had fallen in with – Isak Poole, Henry Abington, and Jeremy Larkin. Isak had not said so, but Kirk had deduced that the trio had formed some sort of secret society. Together they committed clandestine acts and operated as insurgents, with the sole intention of disrupting the plans of the English king's occupying force. From what he could tell, they were unknown as yet to the Continental Army. At least, the young French aristocrat, the Marquis de Lafayette, seemed to have no idea what they were up to. Kirk stared at the Frenchman, amazed to be standing within arm's reach of one of the men he had admired all his life. There were so many of them in this war – Generals Wayne and Greene, the Baron von Steuben, Lafayette, and of course, George Washington himself. These were men who had _made_ the country he sprang from, who had formed its backbone and given it flesh with their dedication and selfless lives. Lafayette had always amazed him. There was no man in whom the word _liberté_ had evoked greater zeal and courage.

A sudden thought struck the starship captain. What if _Lafayette_ was the focal point of the change Happer Clayworth had made? Spock had not told them much of what the Guardian had shown him. All they knew was the fact that George Washington died in September of 1777. The Vulcan had seen more, but there had been no time to brief them before he disappeared. Washington had apparently died of a seizure or stroke brought on by…what? The Battle of Brandywine was looming on the horizon. If all went as it once had, it would happen the following day. Kirk thought through the facts. Major General Lafayette had been there. He had held the ground against a mob of ragtag continentals fleeing in fear at the power of General Howe's military machine. The Frenchman had been wounded in the leg and nearly died.

Nearly….

What if the young major general _did_ die? What would that do to history, and to the older man who had proclaimed him his _son?_

Thank God, Lafayette was here with him – safe and alive.

"Jim." It was Isak Poole. The black man caught his sleeve and pointed ahead as he grinned. "That's Elizabeth's farm."

The blacksmith had explained that Elizabeth was Jeremy Larkin's girl. She was an unofficial member of their society and often helped them out, mostly by providing them with a safe haven.

It seemed to Kirk that he was destined to spend the majority of his time in the 18th century in odiferous environments. First the tavern, then the stable, now a barn stocked with hay and _plenty_ of animals. The 23rd century man sighed.

Hopefully Bones had some hay fever medicine in that black bag of his.

When they arrived, they found no one there. Isak, uneasy, left them shortly, returning to Chester to see if he could discover what had happened to his companions. Kirk would have gone with him – he was worried about McCoy – but a sense of history, of the necessity of keeping the young man who was with him _safe_ , overrode his own needs and desires.

Kirk was sitting on a bale of hay. The Frenchman was pacing. The starship captain watched him for several minutes and then made a suggestion. "If you picked up a pitchfork, you could toss some hay while you make those rounds."

Lafayette looked at him. " _Quoi?"_

"I don't think you are accomplishing anything but wearing out the soles of your boots."

The brown-haired man with aristocratic bearing pulled himself up to his full height. "I do not take to inaction well."

"I can identify with that."

"But look at you! You are so calm."

"I may look it," Kirk smiled. "Inside, I'm pacing with you."

The Frenchman pursed his lips and then glanced at the door. "I must return to my men." He paused. "To the men I left behind."

"Sir," Jim said, rising and crossing to him. "There is no need for pretense. I know who you are."

Lafayette's dark brown eyes were as sharp as Spock's and, like the Vulcan's at times of highest stress, in them he sensed deep currents of emotion barely held in check. "And how is that?" the young man asked.

"I can't really tell you, sir, but I know you are the Marquis de Lafayette, the youngest general in George Washington's army. If you don't mind my asking, General, what were you doing in an occupied town?"

"I am known for being _imprudente et d'éruption cutanée –_ how do you say it, reckless?" Lafayette sighed. "I set out to prove His Excellency's generals wrong, and only succeeded in showing that they were right. _Deus Merci_. I am _l'idiot_."

"You are not an idiot, sir." Kirk smiled. "You are…merely young. A condition from which we have all once suffered."

 _That_ brought a smile to the young man's face. " _Merci_ , _Capitaine_ Kirk." It lingered a moment, but the Frenchman sobered quickly. "What I did was unforgivable. Robert Larkin was wounded because of me."

"Yes, he was. But if you learned from your mistake, then it was not wasted. 'We should not look back unless it is to derive useful lessons from past errors, and for the purpose of profiting by dearly bought experience,'" Kirk quoted.

" _Mon_ general's words," the young man sighed.

"Yes. Intelligent words. _Great_ words. You must heed them."

" _Oui,_ I shall. Now, Captain, as I was saying before – "

Lafayette's sentence went unfinished as the door to the barn opened and a tired and exhausted looking Jeremy Larkin dashed in. "Sir, thank goodness I have found you."

Lafayette frowned. "Sir?"

"I know your secret, General," Jeremy said as he came to their side. "In time two and two always make four."

The Frenchman scowled. "So I have fooled no one? There goes my career in espionage." A moment later he grinned.

"What is it, Jeremy?" Kirk asked, cutting to the chase.

"The British are on the move. It seems some time today they will marshal and attack at Chadd's ford. We must get the general back to his troops. My brother," Jeremy's voice faltered, "Robert made me swear to protect you, sir."

"How is Robert?" Lafayette inquired.

"Alive when I left him. I can say little else for certain."

"And your father?" the Frenchman asked.

"Unharmed for now."

James Kirk watched the young man closely. Jeremy was uneasy, almost nervous. But then, that was to be expected, wasn't it? His father and brother were imprisoned and war was on the horizon. So why did his actions and words make the starship captain's hackles rise?

"Are you all right, Jeremy?" he asked quietly.

"Aye. I am weary, to that I will admit. But then little sleep and _littler_ food will do that to a man as you no doubt know, James. There has been little time for amenities since this whole thing began."

That was true enough.

"What do you propose to do?"

Jeremy drew his pistol and handed another to Lafayette. "I am armed. I will see the general through to Washington's camp. I am…not unknown to some of the soldiers. After that, I will return to Chester in the hopes of freeing my brother and father." As he paused to draw a breath, his gaze shifted to Kirk. "Sir, I stopped by my home on the way here. Dr. McCoy is gone."

"Gone? Gone _where?_ "

"It was a most curious sight, sir. There were three British soldiers stumbling in the street before the house, walking as though drunk, telling a high tale of being bewitched by the doctor and his apothecary apprentice." A rare smile lifted the corner of one of the young man's lips. "The apothecary would be Henry, I am sure. Together they must have engineered an escape."

James Kirk felt relief wash over him. Bones was all right. Now, if they could just find Spock and then, together, Happer Clayworth.

The starship captain thought for a moment. "While you see the general to camp, I will return to the town and see if I can find Doctor McCoy. We still need to find our other friend and then we will lend you all the assistance we can to make certain the events of this day play out the way they were meant to."

"As Providence intends," Lafayette said with a nod of his head.

Jeremy nodded. "That is the hope of us all." He smiled again and indicated the barn door with his hand. "General, after you."

The Frenchman nodded. Gripping the pistol in his fingers, he started out the door. James Kirk followed him closely. It only took about five seconds to realize that the choice to do so had been a mistake. Jim heard the whispered words even as the butt of a flintlock pistol came down _hard_ on the back of his neck.

"Forgive me, Captain Kirk, but we must do this _my_ way if my father and brother are to survive."

"Jeremy, no!" he started to shout, but there was no time.

Seconds later Kirk collapsed to the straw covered floor and the world went black.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock stared at the eastern horizon, checking his internal clock to note the time. It was 08:45.6 a.m. Approximately three and a quarter hours before the British, according to history, began to move, and five and a half hours before the Battle of the Brandywine was joined. There was a palpable sense of fear and anxiety in the small coastal town of Chester. Like electricity it crawled along his Vulcan sensibilities, nearly unnerving him. Applying the mental disciplines, he shut out 99.4% of it. He would have succeeded in shutting it out completely had it not been for the fact that his physical condition was compromised.

Closing his eyes, Spock searched for the location of the foreign object lodged in his body. The lead ball was buried in the fleshy part of his upper chest, near the center, but toward the left hand side. At the moment it was no more than an irritant, but he knew enough medicine to understand that it lay perilously close to several major arteries and posed a continued threat. One wrong move and it could shift and incapacitate him, if not kill him. Still, as there was nothing he could do about it, logic dictated he act as if it was not there.

There were greater concerns this day than his individual life.

Elizabeth Coates did not agree with him. She had been quite upset when he had visited her in the Continentals' camp and told her he was returning to town to seek out his companions. She had wanted to come with him. He had denied her request, of course, and fortunately been seconded by Sergeant Boggs. In the end the young woman had proven quite logical, accepting the fact that her presence would only hamper their efforts to aid both his friends and hers.

Spock glanced at the stable across the street where he had first been overcome. Sergeant Boggs and several young soldiers, all in civilian garb, waited and watched there.

They had decided to allow him to be taken again. He knew Happer Clayworth would be watching for him. Logic dictated that the historian must either attempt to enlist his aid once more, or try to kill him. The best contact for Happer would be Maeve McGinnis, and Maeve – most likely – would be found in Morris' Tavern. Once the woman made her move and he was once again a prisoner, Boggs and his men would track them. It had taken Spock some time to convince Sergeant Boggs that this was the proper course to pursue. Boggs had wanted to set off in pursuit of the missing Frenchman without a plan. In the end the sergeant had yielded to the logic that Happer Clayworth was the man behind the attempt to either take or kill the young marquis, and that finding the lieutenant commander would, in the end, bring about the desired result. Spock had, of course, been forced to imply that the knowledge he had was due to his connection to the Committee of Special Correspondence. In spite of his father's disapproval, it was a good thing his human half offered him the option of prevarication.

Otherwise, he would have had to resign his commission in Starfleet.

Spock was standing just to the side of the tavern entrance, leaning on the building, his lean form shielded by shadows. He watched a patron enter, turned and gave a signal to Boggs who acknowledged it with one of his own, and then followed the man in before the door closed. Once inside the Vulcan looked for Maeve. It didn't take him long to find her. She was, as usual, surrounded by admiring men who knew nothing of her less attractive attributes.

Spock observed her for a few moments. An interview with Maeve could go one of two ways. Either she would set him up again or – and this was his hope – agree to help him. He had witnessed Happer's violent treatment of her. The inevitable end of their pairing _must_ be as clear to the copper-haired woman as it was to him.

Maeve was deep in conversation when Spock reached out and touched her shoulder. The instant he did, he knew there was no hope. Through the physical link he sensed, even before her wide green eyes met his, that though she did not _wish_ to betray him, she already had. She had noticed him outside. Clayworth had been informed. In fact –

"I've heard you're the best first officer in the fleet, Mr. Spock," Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth remarked even as he pressed the muzzle of a flintlock into the Vulcan's back. "That implies intelligence. Coming here was just plain stupid. Unless, of course, you have a plan."

Clayworth's silence discomforted Spock. If the historian suspected…..

"Morris!" Clayworth called.

The old man hustled over, obviously afraid. "Aye, Happer?"

"You still have that old way out? Through the back room floor?"

"The one used for the rum runners? Aye."

Clayworth moved the pistol's barrel lower, to where it rested just above his heart. "Get moving, Spock. To the back. If someone is waiting for us to carry you outside, they are going to wait a _long_ time."

Spock nodded, and then pivoted so quickly the weapon slid across his waist and off the side. He caught Happer's wrist in his right hand and reached up with the left, intending to employ the Vulcan nerve pinch.

Unfortunately, it was at that precise moment that the bullet lodged in his flesh chose to move.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Lafayette's frown deepened as he and Jeremy Larkin continued to move through the trees. The weather had taken a turn during the night and a rising warmth had produced a thick damp mist that obscured the land, reducing visibility to nearly nothing. He could make out his companion but little else. If the rumors were true that Lord Howe intended to mass his army and move, then this might be the opportunity to do so. Returning to camp had become more of a imperative with each step they took and yet Jeremy seemed to be lagging. Every so often the blond man would look behind them, his blue eyes narrowed as if seeking something. Once, when he questioned him, Jeremy had reacted with something that almost amounted to anger. His answer was that he had heard something – perhaps a predator pacing them. But there had been something in Robert Larkin's brother's face, in his voice, that had implied the answer was a lie.

More and more the Frenchman was growing uncomfortable.

Jim Kirk's absence – though explained by Larkin as a necessity – added to that discomfort.

They were approaching the river now. The fog was clabbered; thick as day old milk. There was a stillness in the air that was almost eerie. All of a sudden Jeremy stumbled and fell into him, driving him to the ground.

"There is no time for explanation, general," he breathed close by his ear. "Give me your pistol and prepare to die."

"What?" Lafayette whispered back, stunned.

"The men following must believe you dead. I will pretend to shoot you. The river is near, make for it."

"What about you?"

"Pay me no mind. They believe I mean to betray you." Jeremy cocked the hammer on the pistol. "I will find you again."

The blond man rose to his feet then. His voice harsh, he ordered him, "Get up you French frog! You'll not escape me that way."

Lafayette lay there staring at the young man, uncertain of what to do. Still, there was something in the change that had overcome Jeremy Larkin, in his determined mien and clear, if troubled blue eyes that put him at ease.

" _Oui._ Permit me a moment," he said as he climbed to his feet.

Jeremy hesitated only a second. _Run, sir,_ he mouthed, and then he pointed a flintlock pistol directly at him and fired. A second later the morning air was struck by the concussion of a shot as the blond man fired his other weapon into the ground. Lafayette was jolted by the sound, but unharmed. It only took him a moment to realize that the flintlock Jeremy had taken from him must have been unloaded, while the one the blond mancarried was primed and ready. Even as the first crimson blur appeared behind Jeremy Larkin, Lafayette did as he was ordered. He used his long legs to propel himself into the fog and down the bank toward the water.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeremy waited as a half dozen crimson forms emerged from the heavy fogbank rolling off the Brandywine River. The British soldiers held their rifles at the ready. He had done his best to save both his brother and father _and_ Lafayette. If it wasn't enough – if the soldiers killed him, thereby damning his kin – well, at least he had tried. The oldest of the soldiers, a rough sergeant of fifty or so, skidded to a halt beside him and gripped him by the collar.

"Where is he? Where is Lafayette?"

"He tried to escape," Jeremy answered. His voice trembled, partly as an act, and partly because he was shaking from fatigue. "I had to shoot him. I think I hit him. I don't know. He took off across the fields." The rebel leader pointed in the opposite direction the ne the Frenchman had taken. Jeremy hoped, at least, it would cause the sergeant to halve his forces.

" _Damn!_ Major Tarleton will have our heads unless we bring him back a body riddled with bullets." The sergeant whirled on him. "Too bad _yours_ won't do!" Then he slammed Jeremy across the face with his pistol, driving him to the ground. As the blond man sat there with his head ringing, the soldier pointed the end of the barrel at him. "I should kill you here and now."

"What'll we do, Sergeant Barnes?"

The older man growled. "One of you guard him. Canty, that's your call. Your three, head out across the field. If the frog is wounded, you should catch him quick. You two, come with me. We'll search the area of the river." Brooks kicked Jeremy in the thigh. "This one could be lying."

Only three. Only three would follow Lafayette. The chances were the Frenchman could elude them. And if Jeremy could convince Major Tarleton that he had _indeed_ shot the major general, and that Lafayette's body had been washed downstream after falling in the river, then maybe – just maybe – he could at least save his father's life.

Though probably _not_ Robert's….

"On your feet!" the lieutenant who had been left behind with him ordered even as the other redcoats fanned out.

"Aye, sir," Jeremy answered meekly. "What will you do with me?"

"Hold you here until the others return."

"And then?" he asked.

The man raised his pistol and pointed it at Jeremy's chest. "That will depend on whether or not you are lying."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Leonard McCoy sat watching Henry Abington ply his after-hours trade. It seemed the chubby auburn-haired man was not only an apothecary but a munitions expert. An odd combination, the surgeon thought. Dealing life with one hand and death, most expertly, with the other. Henry claimed the weapons were purely defensive, but the surgeon could see he was troubled by what he did. But then again, it was war, and in war men found excuses for acts they would never consider committing when sane.

They had gone to Isak's smithy first to gather up a couple of rusted naval cannon. McCoy had almost betrayed himself when he hadn't recognized them for what they were. He was, after all, supposed to be a navy man. He had gotten out of it by ranting on about their destructive potential until both the other men had walked into another room to get away from him.

Being a curmudgeon had its advantages. He'd have to remember to tell Spock.

Henry was rigging some kind of explosive charges to place in the cannon and then fire at the British headquarters. Their intention was to create a diversion, drawing the soldiers outside so they could enter and free Robert and Samuel Larkin. Henry would fire off the cannon, and he and Isak would be the invasion force.

Oh joy.

Not for the first time McCoy wished Jim Kirk was here. Jim was the commando, the man of action, not him. He was the one who came along afterward and patched up all the jackasses who got themselves injured. He had his bag with him. He hoped, if and when they got to Robert, that he would not be too late to save him.

McCoy swallowed hard as the image of him snatching Edith Keeler from the path of a car careening toward her, rose before his eyes. What if Robert Larkin was _meant_ to die? Would saving the young captain's life be a mistake? Without Spock and that damned photographic memory of his they couldn't know. Only the Vulcan had seen the images the Guardian provided, and even that didn't mean that he had seen the _right_ ones.

He hoped Spock was okay.

"Damned right, I needed to come along!" McCoy groused.

"Doctor?" It was Henry Abington. The apothecary's hand came down on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I'm worried about my friends," he admitted. 'I suppose I shouldn't be. Much as I kid him otherwise, Spock is able more than most men to look out for himself. And Jim Kirk – "

As he paused, the bell on the apothecary shop's front door rang once, twice, and then a third frantic time. When they failed to answer, someone began pounding. Henry and Isak exchanged worried glances.

"Whoever it is, they will draw attention," Isak announced. "Get out there, Henry, and let them in!"

The apothecary huffed, threw a cloth over his explosives, and then hurried out of the back room where he had been working. Isak and McCoy followed him, and then waited as they heard him turn a key in the lock. A second later Henry opened the door and a breathless Jim Kirk burst in.

"Henry, you have to listen to – Bones! Isak! Thank God you are here! We have to go now. General Lafayette is in terrible danger!"

McCoy noticed that the right side of his captain's face was blackened with bruising, and that a slow trickle of blood ran from his ear to his collar. "Jim, what happened? Let me look at that cut."

Kirk waved him off. "Not now, Bones! Get your weapon and let's go."

"We were about to free the Larkins," Henry protested. "Our plan is nearly complete."

"The Larkins? Oh, God, that's right. I had forgotten they're being held." Jim drew a breath and grew the slightest bit less agitated. But not by much. "That explains it."

McCoy had ignored his friend and was standing by his captain now, examining his head wound. It had been made, he thought, by the sight of a pistol being dragged across the flesh _hard._ The surgeon's mouth watered for his mediscanner. He had it, of course, but didn't dare use it with the others looking on. With it, he could have told instantly if there was any other damage, concussion or otherwise. If so, Jim shouldn't be up and running around.

Not that that had ever stopped him before.

"What do you mean 'explains it'?" the blacksmith asked, suspicious. "Which Larkin are you talking about?"

Kirk drew a deep breath. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your leader has sold you out."

Both men exclaimed, "What! Never! Impossible!" at nearly the same time.

"It's true. Jeremy struck me over the head and delivered Lafayette into the hands of the British in order to save his father and brother."

He saw them hesitate. They were sure of Jeremy – until it came to his family.

"Lafayette?" Isak frowned. "You mean Paul?"

"Dear God, yes, I can see it. But Jeremy, a traitor? I can't believe it," Henry said.

"Believe it. I saw it with my own eyes."

"Never," Isak agreed. "He must have had some sort of a plan."

Kirk shrugged. "It's possible, though I saw no sign of it. His words to me were 'Forgive me, Captain Kirk, but we must do this my way if my father and brother are to survive.'"

"You see!" Henry looked hopeful. " _His_ way. He did have something in mind. Captain Kirk, you must believe us. Jeremy would never betray the Cause in such a way."

Jim's words were hard. "Well, I hope you are right. Regardless, we must hunt him down."

"Jim, how long has it been since you were knocked out?" McCoy asked softly.

"Damn it, Bones, this is no time for you to nursemaid me."

"It's not that. How long? One, two hours?"

Kirk nodded.

"So whatever Jeremy was up to has probably happened – for good or bad."

The captain conceded it. "Probably."

"So maybe we should free Robert and his father anyhow. That way the reason for Jeremy's betrayal," he glanced at the other two men, " _if_ it happened, will be eliminated. With them free the British would lose what, if any, leverage they have on the young man."

"I don't know, Bones. Lafayette…." Kirk's voice trailed off as his hazel eyes flicked to Jeremy's friends. He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't _tell_ them how important the young Frenchman would be to their country's history.

 _Damn_ that Prime Directive!

"It makes sense to me." Isak Poole's black face was stone sober. "If there was anything could make Jeremy waver – _if_ – it would be family. The reason for the secrecy of our organization is to protect them."

"Jeremy loves his brother and father dearly," Henry agreed.

"Jim," McCoy placed a hand on Kirk's arm and drew him aside. "If I am to help Robert Larkin it had best be soon. He was in bad shape the last time I saw him and that was hours ago."

Kirk hesitated. Then he turned back to the other men. "How long will it take?"

"An hour, maybe a little more. We need to set the cannon on the ridge above the town and prime them," Henry answered.

The starship captain mulled it over. McCoy could see the wheels turning in his head. He could sense Jim Kirk's inner struggle as the starship captain fought the need to do what he thought he _had_ to do. Finally, Jim acquiesced. "One hour. No more.

"Now tell me what I need to do."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Lafayette stumbled knee deep through the water, treading cattail leaves and breathing in fog so thick it was choking. It had taken everything that was in him not to turn back and attempt to rescue Jeremy. When he had thought about it calmly, the Frenchman realized that by doing so he would jeopardize any hope that the young man's plan to help his family might work. _He_ had to be 'dead'for the British to release the Larkins. The English command apparently knew he was in Chester and had set out to capture or kill him. They had confronted Jeremy and held his family's lives over his head to make him comply. It spoke of the blond man's fortitude and integrity that he had given him a chance to escape. He could have simply handed him over. It was doubtful anyone would have ever known of his treachery.

A special man indeed.

The Frenchman knew he was somewhere near the Brandywine River. Even as he and Robert Larkin departed, Washington's forces had been dispatched to watch the fords directly above and below Chadd's where they expected the British to strike first. He hoped he was heading south, though he couldn't be certain. The last he had heard General John Armstrong, along with a company of nearly 1000 men, had been set to guard Pyle's Ford. If he could make contact with them he would be safe. It would take no time to be restored to His Excellency's side.

When he had traveled nearly a half an hour, Lafayette chose to emerge from the river. He was soaked to the skin and his teeth were chattering in spite of the rising warmth of the day. Somewhere above the sun shone, but the fog here was thick as soup. It painted the landscape a rich red-gold, but did nothing to burn off the mist. Armstrong had to have sentinels and guards set all along the edge of the Continental line. The soldiers would be looking out for any sign of movement. If he kept walking, surely someone would spot him. He would make them take him to the general who knew him, and then he –

"Stay where you are!" a strident voice ordered. "Remain where you are or I will shoot you where you stand."

Lafayette froze.

The accent was English.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

James T. Kirk glanced at Bones and Isak Poole, and then at the town hall clock. Henry Abington was certainly punctual. The clock had just struck nine and the cannon roared, sending the first of the explosive charges into the air. Kirk ducked involuntarily as the cartridges exploded on impact, taking stone, wood, and metal with them as both the wall of the buildings and its windows blew inward. A general shout of alarm went up. People in the street ran screaming for cover. And, as they hoped, British soldiers in various stages of dress and undress began pouring from the building's interior into the street.

There were about forty of them by his count. Nearly a company. That meant only a few were left inside and they could be injured, Kirk thought as he bolted from the doorway in which he was hiding. There might be none left inside with the strength or will to resist. The way might be clear to free the Larkins.

There _might_ , but that wasn't usually how things played out.

Drawing the antique weapon Isak had given him, Jim nodded to the other two men – noting that McCoy was about as pale a shade of gray as the scattered stone – and told them to follow. Then he ran like a bullet along the buildings, clinging to the shadows as much as he could. A minute later the three of them entered the chaos of British headquarters in Chester. As they did, another round of charges struck the building, shaking it and them.

"One thing I should of told you about Henry," the black man grinned. "He _does_ love to play with his toys."

"Well, let's hope he doesn't get _too_ carried away," Bones growled.

"Be happy, Bones, so far no one's hurt." Kirk checked around the corner and then motioned the others again. "Near the back, you think? On the alley?"

"Aye. That's where they normally keep prisoners."

"Normally? _Normally!"_ McCoy groused. "What the _hell_ is normal about charging _into_ a building that's being blasted to Hell!"

"Bones!"

Kirk stopped the surgeon with a hand to his chest. One lone soldier – a young man pale as a ghost – clung to his duty and kept guard outside the prisoners' room. The starship captain could hear one of the prisoners shouting something from inside the locked door, but he couldn't make it out.

"What now?" McCoy asked.

Jim shrugged. Then he flashed what he knew the doctor considered one of his _dangerous_ smiles.

"Charge!" he shouted and did just that.

The young man never even saw him coming and, seconds later, he lay flat on the floor. Kirk backed off and watched as Bones knelt by the soldier to check the man's vitals. As he did, Isak Poole pulled a sliver of metal from his pocket and began to jimmy the door.

Moments later, they were in.

Samuel Larkin was standing near the door, a raised chair in his hands as if he would defend his son by sheer force of will if necessary. Kirk held his hands up as he entered the room and then was gratified to see the older man relax as Isak followed him in.

"Isak! Thank Providence. What is going on? Where is Jeremy?"

Kirk answered first. "The building is under attack. We have to get you out of here." He crossed quickly to the figure laying on the floor in the corner. What he saw there made him yell, "Bones!"

The surgeon heard it in his voice – near panic.

Kirk watched his friend kneel by Robert's side. After a cursory examination, Bones reached into the black bag and showed him the mediscanner. McCoy's grizzled eyebrows rose with the question.

"Thirty seconds," Kirk whispered. Then he took hold of Samuel Larkin's arm and drew him over to where Isak was standing, deliberately shielding Bones' movements with his body. "Isak, get Mr. Larkin out of here."

"I will not leave my boy!" the older man proclaimed.

"Sir," Kirk said in all seriousness. "We will have to carry Robert out of here. It will be easier – and safer – if we do not have to do the same thing for you." The threat was implied, but it was there. "Head for the Coates' farm, Isak. We'll meet you there if we can."

Samuel Larkin started to protest, which was a good thing, because as he shouted Kirk heard the short whir of the medical scanner taking a reading. "Sir," the older man broke in, "I must _insist_ that I am not an old man to be coddled! I can – "

"I know that," Kirk said, meeting his indignant stare. "And that is _why_ you will do as I ask."

That stopped him. The hard lines in the old man's face softened, making him seem even older. "God bless you, sir," Samuel whispered and then he let Isak lead him out the door.

Just as another series of explosions rocked the building.

Kirk strode over to the doctor's side. "That's the last one, Bones. We have to go!"

McCoy didn't protest. There was no other choice. "I gave him a hypospray, Jim. A massive dose against infection. He'll live, and it won't be too long before he can be on his feet."

James Kirk turned and looked back toward the chaos that he knew awaited them outside – a chaos to be repeated a _hundred_ thousand fold before the day was over and the Battle of Brandywine ended. Robert Larkin was a soldier in General Washington's army.

Bones had just saved Robert, most likely, so he could die.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Sergeant Daniel Boggs' head jerked so hard he felt his teeth snap together. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "What was that?"

"Explosions, sir," one of his men answered, his voice shaking. "From the area of the town hall."

"Is the city under attack?" another asked.

"No. The British occupy her," Boggs answered. "And General Washington is soon to be engaged in battle. He wouldn't…." The sergeant thought again. "Local insurgents, perhaps?"

"Could be, sir. Should we check?"

Boggs hesitated. He looked at Morris' Tavern. Spock had been gone too long. One of his men, either those stationed here with him, or the ones guarding the back, should have seen something by now.

Something must have gone wrong.

"Briggs, you take two others and check it out," he ordered. "Moore, you come with me. We're going inside."

People were pouring out of the tavern, curious to see what was happening. It wasn't difficult to mix in with them and then slip inside practically unnoticed. Boggs made a quick survey of the common room. The tall ebon-haired man from the Committee was nowhere in sight.

"Damn and blast!" he cursed.

"Sir?"

"Spread out. Check the back rooms. Spock has to be here somewhere."

Several minutes passed before one of the men returned. Briggs' skin was pale and a sheen of sweat covered it, as though he had been sick. "Sir, I think you should see this," the soldier said, indicating one of the darkened rooms to the rear of the inn.

Boggs swallowed over the fear that took him as he followed the soldier's retreating form. Though it wasn't what he feared, the sight that greeted him was unsettling. Maeve McGinnis' body lay just beyond the threshold. She had been shot, once, through the heart. Boggs knelt by her side. He reached out and closed her green eyes for the last time. The evil done in her short life had been paid for.

In kind.

"Sir."

Boggs rose and turned toward Briggs. The young soldier was pointing at the floor. At that moment he understood what had happened. A thick rug had been cast aside, revealing an opening in the boards. Beneath the floor a small winding stair lead down into a tunnel that went God only knew where. He had seen the sort of thing before. The tunnels had been constructed for those who ran illegal operations and traded in stolen goods and merchandise.

Maeve must have given Spock away. If the intelligence officer was still alive, he would be found wherever this tunnel emptied out.

Locking his pistol behind the belt of his breeches, Daniel Boggs turned around, entered the hole, and swiftly descended the stairs.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Calculations based solely on logic seldom seemed to pan out where humans were involved.

Spock groaned in pain as he was shifted from the shoulders of one man to another. The bullet in his flesh had moved and he was bleeding again. So far he did not think it had torn an artery, but the rough treatment he was receiving did nothing to reassure him. The possibility was good it would not remain so for long. His head was pounding from the renewed blow it had received and he would have retched if he had had anything in his stomach. There was little he could do but remain as still as possible as he was transported – wherever it was Happer Clayworth was taking him.

The area they occupied was near pitch black. His Vulcan eyesight allowed him to make out shadows and shapes, but they were without distinction. It smelled of earth and mold. Water splashed under the feet of the man who carried him. When someone spoke, which was not often, their words echoed and rang from the confining walls. It took a moment, but Spock deduced at last that they were in a tunnel, employed no doubt for clandestine operations of an unsavory nature. It had been a foolish mistake not to anticipate such a contingency.

He was slipping.

As it appeared to be the most expedient course, Spock continued to feign unconsciousness. Once or twice along their route, existence actually flickered in and out, so it was not far from the truth. At last, they began to climb. A door opened above them and dirt rained down. There was a flash of golden-red light and then a thick mist began to fill the tunnel. Once above ground, the man who held him released his grip and Spock fell like a dead weight to strike the ground. He held his breath, waiting for the bullet to shift further and claim him. When it failed to move, he released the breath and lay there, gathering strength and listening.

"Tie him up. Put him in the wagon. We're going to the Ford to watch." It was Happer Clayworth. "Howe's forces will be on the move. They will cross the Brandywine at the ford I told them about – the one Washington knows nothing of. In a few hours both armies will meet on the battlefield, and it will all be over."

"What about Lafayette?" one of the men asked.

"He should be dead by now. I told Major Tarleton what to do. Take young Larkins' family and then threaten him. The boy will betray the Frenchman. Having one of their own accused of the crime will further demoralize the American troops. Tarleton will take the credit in the end, of course. But then, that's the sort of bastard he is!" Clayworth laughed long and loud.

"And if Lafayette is not dead?" the man asked as soon as the derisive noise died down.

Happer Clayworth sobered quickly enough. "That is also why we go to watch. If the Frenchman escapes and we see him on the battlefield, I will shoot him myself."

Now Spock understood. He had observed the information in the Guardian's files. Most he had watched at hyper-speed, slowing down only the few following George Washington's death. The one from Philadelphia had mentioned the strain put on the older man by a recent _personal_ loss as its main cause. Nothing was specifically cited, though there had been the mention of the death of a 'certain person' of another country who had recently grown as dear to the old man as a son.

The Marquis de Lafayette.

The murder of the Marquis was the crime the historian had come to the past to commit, thereby engendering the death or incapacitation of George Washington. Without Washington, the forging of the new nation would never occur – let alone the winning of the war. Killing Washington outright might have created a martyr and engendered some sort of a retributive victory. When the older man died of grief, it would simple tear the heart out of the American cause. Flawlessly logical. Imminently practical.

And totally amoral.

Spock felt rough hands take hold of him and lift him up. Two men carried him between them and then slid him into the back of a wagon. He lay there, exhausted, and close to losing consciousness. The wagon ride to the ford would take no more than a half hour at most. Still, even thirty minutes rest might prove helpful. He could not go into a healing trance. There was no one here to waken him. Still, he _could_ bend all of his remaining mental energy on stopping the bullet where it was and perhaps encouraging the tissue surrounding it to hold it in place long enough for him to do what had to be done.

Long enough for him to stop Happer Clayworth from killing the Marquis de Lafayette and winning the war for England.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When Bones had said the hypospray would restore Robert Larkin to some kind of health, the surgeon had not reckoned with the young man himself. Not only was Robert on his feet, he was pacing like a caged animal. His blue eyes sparked like the brass buttons on his dress uniform coat. He had insisted they return to his home for him to get it. Robert was dressed now and, despite Bones protests, was preparing to leave. Kirk had been uncertain about coming to the Larkin home at first, but when he thought about it, the odds were low that, with a battle approaching and the destruction of the town hall, any soldiers could be spared to keep watch on it.

Still, it was time to go.

Robert halted in his pacing and turned his blazing eyes on the starship captain. "I will never believe my brother a traitor, sir. _Never!"_

"I hope you're right." Kirk's tone was conciliatory. "I can only tell you what I heard."

"Jeremy cares not one _whit_ who wins this damnable war!" the soldier quickly countered.

"No," McCoy chimed in softly, "but he does care about you and your father."

They were alone in the house. Henry had followed after Isak to help care for Samuel Larkin. They were to await them at the Coates' farm. Only now it was clear Robert Larkin had no intention of going into hiding.

He meant to rejoin his regiment.

Robert's jaw was set. His blue eyes flashed. He drew a deep steadying breath and then spoke with more calm. "Gentlemen. Captain Kirk, I do not doubt what you tell me you have seen. It is your experience. But I tell you, my brother would _not_ do this. When I spoke to him, I told him the general's safety was his _sacred_ charge. Jeremy vowed to me that he would protect him. I do not believe that he would betray that vow." Robert held their skeptical gazes for a moment, and then crossed to the table and picked up his tricorn hat. "You do not have to go with me. This is not your fight, it is mine."

Kirk stood staring at him; the Continental soldier, the man who had made Kirk's country what it was by his willingness to give his all, even to his life. The embodiment of freedom, of liberty, of integrity. The opposite of Happer Clayworth who with his selfish desires threatened to destroy it all.

"It _is_ my fight, Robert," Kirk answered quietly. "It is _all_ our fights. If a man does not stand for liberty, for _freedom_ , then he stands for nothing. Nothing at all!"

He read in Robert's face that the soldier approved. Captain Larkin held out his hand. "Join us then. Now, tonight, for this glorious fight."

"I see nothing _glorious_ in a battlefield covered with blood, guts, and dying men," Bones grumbled at his side. "I didn't save you from infection to send you out to be filled with holes."

"I do not wish to die, Dr. McCoy, but I will for my country." Robert said as he set his hat in place.

Bones understood, even if he didn't want to admit it.

 _They both_ did.

The surgeon looked at him as if seeking to know what to do. Kirk wasn't sure, but he did know that the Battle of Brandywine had to go off as intended. Lafayette _had_ to be there to turn that rushing tide. He had to survive the battle to go on and fight another day; to become the influence that brought France into the war and won it for the colonials. And he – James T. Kirk – had to be there, on that battlefield, to make certain that happened.

Bones, on the other hand, didn't.

"Doctor…" he began.

"Oh no, you don't!" Bones cut him off, reading his mind. "I'm not sitting here worrying while you're out playing soldier. There will be men wounded there. Maybe I can help."

Kirk nodded. _If_ they knew who to help and who to let die.

"All right then. We should – "

A sudden sound outside the door startled them. Robert pivoted and then ducked behind the door, signaling one of them to answer it. Kirk did and opened it to find three tired frontiersmen looking at him. The oldest of them removed his hat and then stared at Kirk, puzzled. "Is Robert Larkin here?" he asked.

The starship captain frowned. "Who's asking?"

"Sir, just tell us. Someone said he had escaped the British and was headed – "

"Philip?" Robert swung around so the man could see him. "Andrew and Michael! Phillip, dear God man, it is good to see you!"

The soldier's face lit with that deep, devoted love that only a man in the ranks can have for his captain. "Captain Larkin, sir! Thank God we have found you!"

"What news?" Robert demanded.

"Word comes that Howe is on the march. We expect to meet them at Chadd's Ford at mid-afternoon. General Washington has men stationed at the fords to the north and south. We should have a good chance of winning."

Kirk had to bite his tongue. He knew. He knew they were doomed. Someone had already alerted Howe to the fact that there was a ford General Washington knew nothing of. Due to the heavy fog obscuring the land, Howe would quickly gain the advantage. About two p.m. the British would move on the American's right flank. With Hazen's brigade outflanked, the other generals would try to reposition their troops, but it wouldn't work. At four p.m., the British would attack with Stephen and Stirling's divisions taking the hardest hit. Washington and Greene would arrive, but it would be too late. The Americans would be forced into a shameful retreat, leaving many of their cannon behind due to the loss of most of their artillery horses. In all, the Americans would lose between 1100 and 1300 soldiers.

And there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it.

"Jim." It was McCoy. The doctor's hand was trembling where it lay on his arm. The surgeon didn't know the battle as well as he did, but he could probably read its outcome in his face.

Kirk shook his head. History had to play out as it had for them to go home.

Robert nodded solemnly. He turned to them. "I go to join my men. Gentlemen, do you come with me?"

As McCoy reached for his medical bag, Kirk nodded. "Let's go."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boggs emerged from the smuggler's tunnel, weapon in hand. He paused as his head crested above the land and glanced about. Seeing no one, he signaled the men behind him and then finished his ascent. The fog was still thick and clinging to the ground, though here and there, it had begun to lift. He knelt and examined the earth and found marks that indicated someone had lain there. He reached out and touched the cool grass and felt hot blood. Lifting his hand, Boggs raised it to the light to make certain and frowned at what he saw. He knew the sun's light as it moved through the fog cast odd shadows and altered the colors around them, but he could swear the thick liquid his hand was coated with was _green._

Dismissing the notion as foolish, the sergeant rose to his feet.

"Someone laid here. They were wounded. Then they were lifted and placed in a wagon." He could see the ruts of the wheels leading away, toward the place where the battle with the British would soon commence.

"Master Spock, you think?" his man asked.

"Still alive, or they would have left him here. They're headed for the ford. It seems everything is aimed at Chadd's Ford this day." Boggs paused. He, along with several other patrols had been sent out to seek the missing Robert Larkin and Lafayette. So far, they had had no luck. Hopefully Sergeant Evans or one of the other men would find the young major general and see he made his way safely back to General Washington's side before all hell broke loose.

"Providence seems to have assigned us quite a task," the sandy-haired man sighed. "To Chadd's Ford, and God help us all."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock lay very still. The wagon had ceased its motion. When it stopped, it had roused him and he had opened his eyes. The pain was manageable now. The blood flow from the wound had been slowed to a trickle. The bullet had been ordered to stay put. Spock had his doubts that the inanimate object would really heed his Vulcan mind's voice, but he had commanded the muscle and tissue around it to hold the ball where it was for as long as was possible and it, he knew, _would_ obey.

Shifting slightly to ease a place in his back where it contacted something hard in the bed of the wagon, he turned his mind and tuned his exceptional hearing to listen to the sounds around him. He could hear Happer Clayworth talking animatedly with another man; one with a strong English accent. No, there were several men. All English. Most likely British soldiers that the historian was meeting with. No doubt Clayworth was relating more information to them in direct violation of the Prime Directive.

Spock's attention centered in on the men's words when he heard the name 'Lafayette'.

"…ain't dead, I tell you. The major's got 'im a half mile off in the woods."

"The frog? Why hasn't he killed him then?"

"He was going to. Then Tarleton thinks, why not parade him on the field? Show the little French bastard to Washington and his men, and then kill him in front of them."

There was a pause. "That Tarleton, he's a right _bastard_ himself." Whoever it was laughed heartily. "God and King George bless him!"

A half mile off. Which way, Spock wondered? He closed his eyes and concentrated. He doubted it would work, but with weak minds, sometimes he could influence them from a distance. Could he _make_ the man tell him? The Vulcan slowed his breathing and reached out, seeking, searching. When he thought he had contacted one of the soldiers' minds, he planted the need to know. Which way, he asked? Which direction? Where is Major Tarleton? Your companion needs to know. Where is he?

 _Where is he?_

"Near the river," the soldier said, sounding surprised himself. "North, near the ford. There's an old footbridge across one of the river's tributaries. That's where he has 'im."

"What?" the other man asked. "What are you talking about?"

There was a pause. "Didn't you ask me where Tarleton was?"

"No."

Both men fell into silence, confused.

Spock shifted. From what he could tell, he was alone and unwatched. Happer was busy elsewhere and these two men, who were supposed to be watching him, were not paying close attention. Clamping down mentally on the pain it engendered, he eased his body down and out of the wagon. When he dropped to the ground a gasp escaped him, but it seemed no one heard. After waiting thirty of his rapid heartbeats, Spock moved under the wagon and from there, into the trees.

Minutes later he arrived at the place the soldier had described. There were four men there. Two guards stationed close to him, a British officer whom he assumed was Tarleton, and one very young, very battered brown-haired civilian bound hand and foot, leaning wearily against the footbridge.

Lafayette.

Spock closed his eyes and tried it again, calling out to the two guards. He planted in their minds the suggestion that there was someone in the woods, hiding behind a crop of rock that was approximately one point five five meters from his hiding place. Crouching down in the tall grasses that lined the river bank, he waited. After a few minutes he heard them coming. One moved behind the rocks to check while the other waited, musket in hand. Spock rose up behind that one and caught him at the base of the neck with a Vulcan nerve pinch that dropped the man instantly. As he pulled the unconscious man into the grasses, the other began to call his companion's name. Spock waited, tensed to spring. The bullet threatened, but he ignored it, commanding it again not to move. As the soldier rounded the rocks, Spock sprang and caught him on the chin with an uppercut.

James Kirk's methods were crude, but efficient.

Leaving the two unconscious men behind, Spock moved toward Major Tarleton and his captive. The major was staring into the woods, wondering – no doubt – where his men were and what they had seen. His weapon was in his hand. That was Spock's one fear – that if Major Tarleton thought his prisoner threatened, he would simply shoot the young man. The Vulcan looked and saw it in the Englishman's eyes. He was close, _very_ close to making that decision.

Spock weighed his options and decided his only ally was surprise. It would take the major approximately three point five seconds to turn once he had made up his mind, and another two point five seconds to pulls the trigger and release the ball. That gave him approximately five seconds in which to take the man down.

The British major snarled and Spock saw his muscles tense. As Tarleton pivoted on his heel, everything seemed to go into slow motion. With Vulcan speed he burst from the underbrush and rushed toward the armed man. With Vulcan _strength_ , he struck him and drove him to the ground. As Tarleton fell, his pistol fired. Spock looked up to see the ball flying through the air toward the young Frenchman who was only just waking to his danger. The Vulcan breathed a sigh of relief as the projectile struck the wood beside the marquis's shoulder, splintering the rail of the footbridge and raining wooden shards on the young man. At the same second, Tarleton snarled like an enraged animal and brought all of his strength to bear and rolled Spock over so he ended on top of him. Staring hatred at him, the British major lifted his pistol high over the Vulcan's head, intending to bring it down in a death blow that would crush his skull.

It never happened. Tarleton's eyes were suddenly perplexed and then, with a groan, he toppled over onto the ground.

Spock looked up to see Sergeant Boggs staring down at him. The frontiersman held a pistol, butt forward, in his hand. Logically, the sergeant had assumed that another shot, fired so close to the coming battlefield would draw unwanted attention.

The Vulcan nodded his approval.

And then passed out.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

When Spock awoke, it was to the sound of Leonard McCoy's voice. The Vulcan's stomach churned from one of the doctor's noxious potions and, surprisingly, he felt slightly euphoric.

"Damned if you weren't right, Jim," the surgeon sighed. "It's a good thing I came along. I'd hate to think what would have happened to Spock if one of those Continental surgeons had tried to remove that ball. It was lodged so close to the Vulcan equivalent of the subclavian artery, he's lucky he didn't bleed to death."

"Is he going to be all right, Bones?" His captain's voice was worried. "He looks…well, greener than normal."

Spock wanted to assure Jim that he was functional, but when he tried, he found instead that he was not. He could neither wake fully nor speak.

McCoy lowered his voice. "That could be the chloroform. I was only able to manufacture a crude form of it, but under the circumstances it had to do. Even with that Vulcan stamina of his, I wasn't about to dig a bullet out of his shoulder with a steel knife without putting him under." Spock felt the doctor's touch on his left side, checking the pulse of his heart. "He'll have to be monitored for a while. Chloroform can cause fatal cardiac arrhythmia. Used to be called 'sniffer's death'." McCoy sighed. Spock felt the surgeon rise from the edge of the bed. "Though with that racehorse heartbeat of his it would be hard to tell."

"I need to talk to him, Bones. We have to know what it is we have to stop. Spock's got that knowledge locked up in his head."

"He's not going to answer anything for a while!" McCoy announced indignantly. "This would have been a dangerous operation under normal sterile circumstances, Jim. God knows what little bacteria were clinging to that knife. I hope we end this soon and I can take a good look at him on the ship."

Ship. Spock's senses reeled. Yes, they came from a ship. From far away.

Was it in the center of the world?

"If we _have_ a ship." Jim Kirk's voice had a hard edge. "God knows I don't want to risk Spock's life, but Bones, we have to do what we came here to do. We _have_ to stop Happer Clayworth." His captain's voice fell off to almost nothing. "Spock would understand. Bring him around, Bones. Now."

He did understand. He _wanted_ to answer. But he couldn't.

"A stimulant? Jim. No. Coupled with the strain the use of the chloroform placed on his heart? No. I won't do it."

"That's an order, Bones."

"Damn your orders! There isn't even a Starfleet yet!" McCoy's fierce devotion to life rang in his outrage. "How can I disobey a _damn_ order when there isn't any _damn_ service yet?"

"Bones!"

" _No!"_

They were arguing because of him. Just as his parents had years before. He didn't want anyone to argue over him. Reaching deep into himself, Spock sought to throw off the effects of the foreign drug that had been introduced to his system. Vulcans' air pathways were extremely sensitive. It felt as if they had been burned by the introduction of the foreign substance. He concentrated on following the path it had taken, on repairing the damage it had done – at least enough that he could throw off the lethargy and wake.

Captain Kirk was standing over him. Jim's right hand was out. His voice was grim. "Bones, give the hypo to me. I'll take responsibility."

There was a pause. "No. No. It's safer if I do it." Spock recognized the sound of the hypospray applicator moving as the surgeon prepared it. "I'm sorry, Jim. It's just damned unfair. The whole thing is _damned_ unfair. I'm not a violent man, but for what he's done, I'd like to take Clayworth out and shoot him at dawn."

Spock felt the weight of the hypospray applicator press against his arm. Mustering all of the strength he could find, he lifted his hand and caught the doctor's wrist before the surgeon could administer it.

"Spock!" McCoy declared. "You're awake!"

It took him a few seconds. "Yes," was all he managed before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

"Damn! I was afraid of that. Get him some water, Jim." Spock felt McCoy's hand on his back, lifting him up. "Here, Spock. Drink some of this. Sorry about that chloroform, it's hellish stuff."

"A… _necessary_ evil…doctor," he rasped even as consciousness brought a keen sense of the pain throbbing through his body. Spock drew in air, coughed again, and then asked, "Where…."

Jim Kirk's voice held awe. "George Washington's camp. Spock, I've already seen both Generals Wayne _and_ Greene. It's amazing." Seeming to realize that he was gushing, Kirk continued in a more subdued manner. "Robert Larkin brought us here. He's gone to join his regiment. We arrived just as Sergeant Boggs did, with you and Lafayette in tow. The marquis went off to join General Washington. The army is on the move. It's nearly three. One hour, and the battle will begin in earnest."

Robert Larkin. Spock knew the name. The images from the Guardian had contained it. Robert's death had spurred his younger brother on to do great things. Boggs he had not heard of, but he knew Lafayette _must_ live – and that he was in imminent peril. He had saved the young Frenchman from Major Tarleton and yet, they were _still_ here. The Guardian had not returned them to the future.

Things had not yet been set right.

The images of what happened were locked in his mind. Somewhere within them was their answer. But he was so tired. Even his Vulcan strength was failing. It would not be long before he was forced to retreat into a healing trance or die.

"Jim," McCoy's mediscanner was whirring, "he's too weak. We can't press this."

"Bones, we have to know." Kirk paused. "Will it kill him?"

"Probably," the surgeon growled as he snapped off the scanner in frustration.

"Captain…" Spock croaked.

Jim leaned in closer. "Yes, Spock."

"There…is another…way."

He could hear the puzzlement in his friend's voice. "What? What, Spock?"

His lips did not want to respond. The Vulcan wet them with his tongue. "Mind…meld."

"No. No, Spock!" It was McCoy. "You're too weak."

"Which is more of a risk, Bones? Me melding with him, or the stimulant?"

"Damn it, Jim, _both_ can kill him! And if you meld with him and he goes into cardiac arrest, you could die too!"

Another pause. "I'm willing to take the risk. Spock, how? Do you have the strength?"

No, he did not. But he would find it.

Slowly, gathering every ounce of strength he had and combining it with what he often denied, the inheritance of stubbornness from his human mother, Spock lifted his hands and touched his captain's face. Their minds had met only once before and the energy of James Kirk's keen intellect and personal strength had nearly overpowered his own on that occasion. He was weak now. He did not know what would happen.

But Spock knew he must try.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He had been here before. Well, not _here_ , but here, in Spock's mind.

This time, as the hustle and bustle of George Washington's camp faded around him, Jim Kirk found himself on a seashore. It was a peaceful place. And a surprising one, considering Spock was a creature of desert and sand. He walked along the beach. The water was calm, placid; blue as inner space. Somewhere close by there was the sound of other water running fast, like quicksilver, over stones. A fountain, maybe? And then, for just a moment, he thought he heard laughter. But he had to be mistaken. He had joined with Spock's mind.

Spock didn't laugh.

 _Captain._ A familiar voice greeted him as Spock's lean form appeared near the water's edge. He was dressed in his familiar regulation blue and black. The Vulcan's keen gaze was fixed on him; his black eyes unreadable.

 _Spock_. Kirk looked around. _Where are we?_

His first officer looked somewhat chagrinned. _In times of distress, Vulcans are taught to seek their center – that place where they are most at peace. This is mine._

 _It's beautiful. Where is – or was it?_

The Vulcan hesitated.

 _If it's too personal, Spock…._

 _No, Captain. You are here. You have a right to know. It is Earth, not too far from where we are now. The Chesapeake Bay region._

 _Earth?_ Kirk was surprised.

 _As a child I visited here with my mother. An ancient aunt lived near Sandy Point._ Spock hesitated. _In the meld there are no secrets._ _I am at peace here._

Jim heard the laughter again. Suddenly he understood. _Your mother_ , he asked?

Spock's face was a stone mask. _Yes._

 _I'm sorry for intruding_ , he said, and meant it.

 _You alone would I allow here. There is no condemnation in you, Jim, nor accusation._

 _No. God knows you have seen the darkest and brightest parts of me._

 _Yes. Rest. Mother laughs for you as well._

Kirk started to give in to that laughter, to the sense of peace and contentment it brought. Then, suddenly he recognized it for what it was. Spock was weakening. Giving in.

 _Spock! No! Fight._

 _It is peaceful here. Join me in that peace._

Kirk shook himself. _No!_ _Spock you have to remember. We are fighting not only for ourselves, but for the future. For everything we know and love. For the ship, for Scotty and Uhura, for the Vulcans and my people, for everyone! I need to know what the Guardian showed you. You must show me._

 _I'm tired, Jim._

The human weariness in Spock's tone was frightening. _I'm tired too, but there is no time to rest now, no time to walk by the sand. Amanda must wait. Commander, we have work to do._

 _Too tired._

 _Use my strength, Spock. Draw on it. I have enough for both of us._

There was a flicker of amusement. _I believe the good doctor would say that is usually my line._

 _Do it, Spock! Take some of my strength. Enough that you can share what you know._

After a pause his first officer's weary voice responded. _Very well._

And then it hit Kirk in a burst, images flying past at light speed, visions of his country in the midst of its labor pains, grunting and groaning to be born. He saw the first shots at Lexington and Concord, he stood in the chamber in Virginia as freedom from English oppression was first proposed, he paced the halls with John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, waiting for the Declaration to be approved. Kirk drew a breath and then he was in the midst of the battle. He saw thousands of men – crimson and deep blue – moving in lines across the fields outside of Chester. He saw Robert Larkin, his brother Jeremy, Henry and Isak. Lafayette.

And he knew what he must do.

 _Spock_ , he called. _Spock, I have it._ And then with real regret, he added, _I have to go back._

 _It is your choice, Captain,_ the Vulcan said, _you must break the meld for I have not the strength._

 _Will you survive it?_

 _I do not know. But it does not matter. If I do not, Amanda is laughing._

 _Spock, hang on to my voice. Feel my face beneath your fingers. When I pull away, come with me. Amanda would want you to wait. You have many things to do._

 _Jim…. I will try._

Kirk gasped and reared back. He was trembling and sweat streaked down his forehead, burning his eyes. His hands held Spock's. The Vulcan was pale as death and unmoving. Kirk laid his friend's hands on his chest and then looked from him to Bones. The surgeon was watching the tiny screen on his medical scanner. A _very_ deep frown marred his face.

"Bones?"

"He's alive. Barely." McCoy looked up. "You look like hell, Jim."

"Thanks." Kirk breathed in deeply again and shifted to the chair beside Spock's bed. He felt like he had already _been_ through a battle.

"What's it like in there?" Bones asked softly as he injected something into the Vulcan's shoulder.

"In where?"

McCoy nodded toward Spock and then tapped his own forehead. "All dry dust and stacks of equations?"

Kirk thought of the placid water and of the sound of Amanda Grayson's laughter.

"Sure, Bones. What else would you expect?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

An half hour later James Kirk stood outside the tent where Spock lay deep in a healing trance, watching something he never could have _hoped_ to see – George Washington rallying his troops before they entered battle. The older man's tall martial figure on his white charger cut against the green trees like a lightning bolt. In spite of the fact that he knew the Continental Army faced a massive defeat in the next twelve hours, Kirk found himself believing the commander-in-chief's words. He had never seen or felt anything like it before. Washington's presence was electric.

The young Frenchman rode at his side. Perhaps he had been left somewhat sensitive by his meld with Spock, but it seemed to Kirk that he could sense the growing bond between the two men. There were some pairings that went beyond explanation; love and loyalty that crossed boundaries not easily understood. Sarek and Amanda were one example. Kirk's being remembered her infectious laughter. How had the serious stoic Vulcan ambassador dealt with it, he wondered? He and Spock were the same. Like fire and water in many ways, but instead of extinguishing one another, they were compliments. And this man, Washington – aged, in fear of dying, worn out to some extent – had been given new life by an ebullient French teenager who loved liberty more than his own life.

No wonder losing Lafayette so soon after finding him had been more than the old man could take.

But not this time. Not _today_. Happer Clayworth would not win. The _British_ would not win. Not so long as James T. Kirk had anything to say about it.

He had to make certain Lafayette made it through the battle. One step had already been taken. When Spock had rescued the Frenchman, Major Tarleton had been captured. In Spock's memory, Tarleton was the one who had killed the marquis near the edge of the river, when the battle was nearly ended. Kirk had asked and received permission to join the marquis' regiment. He would be there to make sure that the young man made it off the battlefield as history demanded. He would make certain Lafayette escaped from danger after that. He would see him to Bethlehem and the healers there. And somewhere along the way, Kirk knew, he would run into Happer Clayworth. They couldn't go back without the historian. That was probably why they were still here, he told himself as he watched Washington and the young major general ride away. Spock had saved Lafayette, but the Guardian would not take them until they had tied up all the loose ends. That was it.

Wasn't it?

Kirk turned to find Sergeant Boggs approaching him. The frontiersman led a fine brown horse by the reins. "You've been assigned to Sergeant Evans unit," he said as he drew abreast. "He's a good man. He'll be keeping watch on the young general."

"You're not going?" Kirk was surprised.

"I'll be there, but with General Washington."

"I see." Kirk took the reins. He stared at the other man, sensing something. "Sergeant Boggs, what is it?"

Boggs' eyes went to the tent where Spock lay. "How's your friend? We owe him a great deal."

"Mending," Kirk replied. "You didn't answer me."

"It's probably nothing. God knows there will be five thousand British soldiers in the field today." His shrug was not _quite_ convincing. "What's one more?"

Kirk felt his stomach flip. "One more?"

Sergeant Boggs nodded. "I just got word. Major Tarleton overpowered his guard and escaped. I pray Providence lays that villain in my line of sight." The older man's jaw grew tight. "If so, life shall see the end of him this day!"

Major Tarleton had escaped.

There was going to be hell to pay.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

It hadn't taken all that much in the confusion to overpower the English soldier guarding him. Jeremy Larkin was on the move, though he had found out that moving was not an easy matter in an area swarming with edgy redcoats and nervous continental soldiers. He had already evaded a number of patrols. At the moment he couldn't be certain what welcome he would receive from _either_ side. To the British he was an escaped prisoner. Whether they considered him valuable enough to keep alive depended on how much the individual who stopped him knew. To the Continentals, most likely, he was a traitor. James Kirk would have awakened shortly after his departure with the marquis. Kirk, no doubt, thought he had betrayed the Frenchman to save his own – and his family's necks. If their positions had been reversed it is was what _he_ would have thought. And _if_ that was the case, there no doubt was a warrant out for his arrest – if the soldiers had not been ordered to shoot him on sight.

The only hope Jeremy had lay in somehow returning to Chester and contacting Henry and Isak. Though suspicious of his actions, he knew his men believed in him. If he could convince them of what he had done – and _why_ he had done it – they could carry the information to those in charge and see him cleared of all wrongdoing.

 _If_ they, along with everyone else he knew and loved survived this day.

Several hours before he had heard multiple gunshots ring out. The sound had come from north of his position near the ford. Probably from the area of Birmingham Courthouse. The ground was high there and it made sense the Americans had chosen to use it to their advantage. A fleeing soldier had explained the British were too strong; that Sullivan, Stephens, _and_ Stirling's divisions were all on the run. When Jeremy asked about Washington, he had been told the great man was on his way with additional troops but that the gesture was futile. Too many of the American soldiers were untried. Too many of them were tossing down their weapons and fleeing.

Too many were already dead.

Jeremy had seen that too, though in low numbers. Bodies, littering the fields, clad in both red and blue. But there was _so_ much more _blue_ than red.

Every time he saw one, he wondered if it was Robert.

As more shots rang out, closer this time, Jeremy ducked into the leaves that lined the footpath he was on. He had been lucky so far. The soldier he had spoken to had not known him. This time, his luck might fail and he did not dare risk capture. There was too much at stake today. Too many tasks at hand that needed carrying out.

Simply _too_ much to do.

Crouching down, Jeremy waited as two men walked past. Their heads were bent together and they were deep in conversation. So deep they did not notice him even when he sprang from his hiding place and stepped onto the path behind them.

"Henry! Isak!" he declared.

Both men spun. Both looked stunned.

Henry was the first to rouse from stupefaction. Grinning, he declared, "Jeremy! Dear God, _Jeremy!_ How are you? Where have you been?" The apothecary caught him in a bear's hug and nearly squeezed the air from his lungs. When Henry released him, his round face sobered. "What have you done, my friend?"

Jeremy glanced at Isak. The smithy's look was wary.

"Am I considered a traitor, then?" he asked.

Henry looked pained to admit it. "Aye. James Kirk said you kidnapped General Lafayette and turned him over to the British in order to save your father and Robert."

"We told him he was wrong," the smithy added. "He _was_ wrong. Wasn't he, Jeremy?"

"Yes and no," the rebel leader admitted with chagrin. "I _did_ kidnap the general and led him away with the British following." At their looks, he raised a hand. "But it was with the intention of freeing him and allowing him to escape. I had hoped, by appearing to do what Major Tarleton asked, that I might save my father at the very least. It was selfish of me, I admit. Though to tell the truth, I could see no other way of getting the marquis back to Washington's side. There were six soldiers with me, watching the Coates' barn and waiting for an opportunity to take or kill him."

Henry reached out and took him by the arm. "We knew you were not a traitor."

"Aye," Isak echoed.

Jeremy nodded his head, truly touched. "Now, tell me what has transpired since our disappearance. What of the strangers? Of Lafayette? Is there word? And what of my father and Robert?" A fearful thought struck him. "Do _they_ believe me guilty of this charge?"

"Jeremy, we have been at Elizabeth's farm. Your father is there, safe and sound of both body and mind," Henry said. "Of General Lafayette and the strangers, we know little. We have only now come from the Coates' to seek you out."

"What of Robert?"

"He is rescued and well enough, due to Doctor McCoy's ministrations, to rejoin his regiment."

Jeremy noticed that Henry turned so he could not meet his eyes.

"Does Robert think me a traitor?"

It was Isak who answered. "He does not want to. But, Jeremy, he is unsure."

The rebel leader had not felt so heart-sore since his mother had passed. "Dear Lord…."

"You will prove your innocence," the blacksmith said as his hand fell on Jeremy's shoulder. "Once this day is over, we will go to General Washington and – "

"You will go to General Washington now!" a strident voice proclaimed even as a Continental soldier stepped out of the leaves and aimed a rifle at them.

In spite of Jeremy's protestations Isak and Henry moved in front of him – fearful, no doubt, that the man would simply shoot him.

"You must hear him out," the black man protested.

"He will get his hearing." Another man, dressed in a hunter's frock coat stepped out of the leafy covering. Jeremy knew him. It was Phillip Stoner, his brother's personal aide. Phillip's look was hard; his jaw set in a tight line.

"Lieutenant Stoner," Jeremy began, "I can explain."

"Let us hope you can. But not here. And not to me." Philip raised his hand. A flintlock pistol was in it. "My orders are to take you back to the camp lately abandoned by General Washington, and to hold you there until such a time as a court martial can be convened to give you opportunity to answer the charges made against you."

"But, sir," Henry protested. "We are loyal to the Cause. This day of all days, all should be free to aid in – "

"Until we know just whom Master Larkin means to aid, he is to be detained." Phillip's weapon swung to the auburn-haired man. "You will not interfere, unless you care to join him."

Even as they spoke more shots rang out, still closer, as the fighting grew in intensity. The battle was moving their way. Soon, they would be engulfed in it. The noise of the conflict drew the lieutenant's attention and for a moment, his weapon wavered. Before he had time to forbid him to do it, Isak struck out and knocked the weapon aside.

"Run, Jeremy!" the smithy shouted. "We'll hold them…."

It was a mistake. Jeremy knew it, even _before_ another dozen Continental soldiers appeared from out of the trees. This was it. Whatever happened today on the Brandywine, it would happen without them.

Seconds later, bound and under suspicion of collaborating with the enemy, Jeremy and the rest of the Yankee Doodle Society were led away.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock gasped and called out for assistance. Even though every muscle and fiber of his being screamed against his waking, he ignored their command and demanded their obedience to his will. As he had lain there recuperating, he had reviewed the progress of the meld he shared with Jim Kirk. While the captain's assessment of the transferred images had been essentially correct, it had occurred to the Vulcan that the human had misinterpreted one important aspect of the events unfolding around them: they were not here to prevent the Marquis de Lafayette's death so much as assure that someone _else_ did.

He had to awaken.

"Doctor!" the Vulcan cried, feeling his body shutting down, seeking to pull him into a darkness that might prove unending, "Doctor! _McCoy!_ "

A long string of colorful and highly inventive epithets announced the ship's surgeon's arrival. "Spock, what are you doing? It hasn't been long enough."

"Strike me, Doctor. Quickly!"

"M'Benga said this kind of thing took days – "

"There is no time to argue." Every word was bitten off and spit through teeth clenched against pain. No off-worlder could understand. In this the Vulcan mind did _not_ rule. If he did not regain consciousness, he _would_ die. _"Strike me."_

"For the love of God, Spock…" Weakened as he was, his mental barriers were raw. The human physician's emotions crashed through was little was left of them as McCoy touched his arm. For a moment, Spock was overwhelmed with the doctor's genuine emotion and concern for him. Beyond that, he suddenly understood. It was inconceivable to the human healer that he was being called upon to inflict pain.

"Doctor, forgive – " Spock bit back excruciating pain. His body was in rebellion. It wanted to shut down. Permanently. A moan escaped his lips, startling even to his own ears.

He was going to die.

" _Damn it!_ No, you don't, Spock," Leonard McCoy growled. And then the Georgia doctor drew back his arm and struck him with all the rage of his fear and loathing combined.

"Again. Harder."

McCoy obeyed, every inch of him resisting. Spock could feel it in the waves of emotion radiating from the medical man.

"Again!"

This time the blow jarred him to the core of his being. Spock gasped and his eyes flew open in surprise. When he caught McCoy's arm and kept him from striking again, the Vulcan saw the same surprise register on the surgeon's face. It had taken McCoy's anger to awaken such strength in him; an anger the physician had not known he possessed.

"Thank you, Doctor," Spock said evenly as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the army cot he occupied.

"What do you think you are doing?" Leonard McCoy asked him. The doctor was breathing hard and did not look at _all_ acquiescent. "Lay back down. That wound has barely begun to heal."

One black eyebrow peaked. Spock held a sigh at bay, but barely. "After nearly three years' experience, Doctor McCoy, I would think that by now you would have accepted the futility of such an argument," he remarked.

"In other words, you are going to do what you damned well please in spite of your physician's orders."

"As you so succinctly put it earlier, Doctor, there is no Starfleet as of yet. Therefore there are no orders of any consequence." Spock ignored the surgeon's hand on his shoulder and rose to his feet. It dismayed him that he was unable to keep from swaying as he did.

McCoy said nothing as he folded his arms over his chest. But his lips compressed in a triumphant smile.

"Doctor, in spite of any danger or threat to myself, duty compels me to seek out the captain and then, to find or locate Jeremy Larkin. It is imperative that Mr. Larkin and his comrades are free to take their part in the drama unfolding even now outside of Chester. During my perusal of the Guardian's images recorded _before_ Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth stepped through the time portal, I became cognizant of the existence of a pair of brothers whose combined fate heavily influenced the outcome of the war in this locale."

"The Larkins?" McCoy asked, his tone skeptical. "I don't recall any Captain Larkin achieving anything special in the history tapes. In fact, I don't recall the name at all."

Spock had little knowledge of Robert Larkin. He had seen him across the tavern's common room. The blond man had seemed an able-bodied individual and, if an assessment of one's looks and actions for so brief a time could prove informative, a straightforward and upright man. Of his brother, Jeremy Larkin, the Vulcan knew only what he had seen in the Guardian's memory. Jeremy Larkin was destined for great things; all incognito.

"Robert Larkin does not survive this day," Spock said, his tone seemingly indifferent. "His brother must. It is Jeremy Larkin who will save the life of Major General Lafayette."

McCoy's lips remained pursed as he shook his head. "I don't think so, Spock. About an hour ago, around six o'clock, a group of Continental soldiers marched Jeremy Larkin and his friends into camp under suspicion of attempted murder and collaboration with the enemy.

"They're being held under guard in Sergeant Boggs' tent."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeremy paced the narrow confines of the military tent they had been sequestered in. It was bad enough to have been taken and accused of such a heinous crime, but for the man who had done it to be his brother's aide….

Good God! Robert must hate him!

"Jeremy, sit down," Henry sighed. "Save your energy – "

"For what? Hanging?" Jeremy snapped. Instantly, he regretted it. "Forgive me, Henry. I do not mean to take out my frustration on you."

"I know." The apothecary abandoned the edge of the low bed he had been sitting on and rose to his feet. "You are a man of action, and you cannot act."

"Today of all days!" Jeremy resumed his pacing. "Within miles of here good men are dying. My brother could be among them. And I can do _nothing_ to assist him or any of his comrades."

"It's a shame those canisters of Henry's are going to sit in the apothecary shop untested and untried," Isak agreed. "As well as the ones worked that we launched against the town hall, I bet they could have turned the tide."

"At least we know Lafayette made it safe to Washington's side," Henry said. "His presence should rally the troops when they arrive."

"But Major Tarleton lives as well!" Jeremy could hardly believe it. The good news was that one of the strangers newly come to town had freed Lafayette from Tarleton's grasp. The bad news was that the British major had been captured and then slipped through his enemy's fingers. "Tarleton has a personal grudge against both me and the general. I fear what he may be plotting. In the midst of a battle, anything can happen."

"Well, it is out of our hands." Henry walked to the flap that sealed the tent and peered through the crack left by the ties. "There are two guards posted here, and two more behind. We have no weapons and, even if we did – even if we _could_ overcome these four – there are a dozen more in the camp with express orders to shoot us on sight should we attempt to escape."

Jeremy paced a moment longer and then fell heavily onto the cot Henry had recently deserted. He lowered his head into his hands. After a moment, he looked back up. "Henry. Isak. Do you have a sense of what I do?"

The two men looked at him blankly.

"A sense of what?" Henry asked.

"That everything is somehow _wrong_. That things were not meant to play out as they have. We should not be here in this place. I should _not_ be accused of betraying the Cause. And Major Tarleton? I don't know. Somehow, I don't think he should be able to _recognize_ the general, let alone have a personal reason to seek the Frenchman out and destroy him."

"That is very perceptive of you, Mr. Larkin," an imperturbable voice remarked, startling them all.

Like a wraith, a lean ebon-haired man had appeared near the back of the tent. He stood at ease, with his hands locked behind his back, regarding them coolly.

"Who are you?" Jeremy demanded.

The man raised a finger to his lips and inclined his head toward the front of the tent. "I have incapacitated the guards to the rear. Those in front are still quite animate."

Jeremy approached him. The man had a fresh linen bandage wound about his dark head. He was dressed for the most part as a gentlemen, though his linen shirt and breeches were soiled. The coat he wore was a deep blue and a size too large, as though it had been borrowed or pilfered.

"Who are you?" the rebel leader demanded again, pitching his voice low so it would carry no more than a few feet. Then, even before the man answered, he had it. "You are Captain Kirk's missing man," he said.

"Yes. My name is Spock."

"You saved the marquis," Henry added as he joined them. "Thank God for that, sir!"

"If there is a deity involved, then it is not through testing the mettle of its people yet," Spock remarked dryly. "I only delayed the inevitable. It t is not up to me to keep the marquis safe. It is up to you three."

Jeremy frowned. "What are you saying?"

"In order to ascertain in your mind that my assertions are true, and to verify the veracity of my statements, I feel a radical step is necessitated." Spock hesitated. His glance traveled between them before settling, unnervingly, on him again. "However, to reduce the impact of what I must relate, I would ask that you, Jeremy Larkin, step outside the tent with me while your friends remain within."

"Where are we going?"

"Into the nearby woods. I have a…truth I must impart to you."

Jeremy held the stranger's intense gaze. Spock's near-black eyes were flint. In their ebon depths he read no lie.

"Very well."

"Jeremy!" Isak caught him by the arm. "We have no idea who this man is. We don't know – "

"I do. I know. Somehow, I _know_ ," the rebel leader replied simply as he followed Spock toward the rear of the tent. Jeremy squeezed Isak's flesh reassuringly and then shot a look at Henry. "I won't be long."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock watched dispassionately as the 18th century man approached. The Vulcan had led him some one hundred feet into the trees. The camp they occupied was, for the most part, deserted. After the battle ended tonight near midnight, stragglers would make their way back seeking aid. Then it would be completely abandoned as the majority of the survivors of the Battle of the Brandywine flowed into, and through the village of Chester.

"Well," Jeremy demanded, "what is it you would tell me."

Spock drew a breath. He reached for the bandage on his head. There was no time for subtlety. "It is not what I would tell you. But what I must _show_ you."

With that, he removed the bandage covering his pointed ears and the full extent of his alien eyebrows.

Jeremy Larkin gasped.

"I am not from your world," the Vulcan said without preamble. "Nor am I or my companions of your era. Where we come from, it is possible to travel back or forward into time. One of our number, a man named Happer Clayworth, did so, and by his choice altered the very fabric of history. Do you believe me?"

The young man was silent and pale. For several heartbeats he said nothing. Then only, "Can I deny the truth of my eyes?"

"No. And that is why I have revealed myself to you. I apologize if the image is distressing."

"What…." Jeremy swallowed hard and shook himself. "What did this man, Clayworth, do?"

"He engineered the execution of the Marquis de Lafayette. This action not only brought about the death of George Washington, but the end of the war. The removal of the commander-in-chief and of the eventual entry of France into the war made victory impossible. America acquiesced to Britain's demands and remained in the union."

"That is what _happened_ …."

"No. It is what _will_ happen due to Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth's interference. It is not, however, what was _meant_ to happen."

"So we win?"

Spock shook his head. "It is best if I do not say."

Humans were fascinating studies. One could see the workings of their mind written on their faces. Jeremy Larkin passed from disbelief to belief, and back to skepticism in a matter of seconds. "Why should I believe you?" he asked.

"Why should I lie?" Spock paused. "And there _is_ the testimony of your own eyes. How else do you explain me?"

"I don't. I…can't." Jeremy drew a steadying breath. "Where you come from, are there many like you?"

"Many? Yes. And many others who are different from both me _and_ you."

The young man fell silent, contemplating all he had heard. When he raised his head and met Spock's gaze, any doubt had been replaced by a determined light that lit his deep blue eyes. "What is it I need to do?"

"First, you must escape. Second, you must be on the banks of the Brandywine River when Major General Lafayette makes his escape from the field.

"And, third, you must prevent Major Tarleton from killing him."


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

James Kirk had been in battle before – at Ghioghe, on Cestus III with the Gorn, and countless other times throughout his career at Starfleet – but nothing he had experienced could compare to being on the ground during an all-out conflict between two armies totaling nearly thirty _thousand_ men. Regarded as one of the largest and bloodiest battles of the revolutionary conflict, the Battle of Brandywine had been mandatory reading at the academy. Kirk had studied it, worked his way through the battle moves, even engaged in a simulation of the battle itself, but the reality of oppressive heat, drifting fog, gun smoke, cannon fire, blood, guts, and unending death was another thing entirely. In his head he knew nearly _thirteen hundred_ Americans were dying. He had to ignore that fact. He had to divorce himself from the reality of each and every man and boy – and dear God there were _so_ many boys – that lay dying; shedding their lifeblood to paint the green grass crimson red. He wanted to save them all, but he couldn't think about that. He had to concentrate on saving only one – one _French_ boy.

The son of the nobility, the elegant marquis christened this day by fire as the American Major General Lafayette.

Kirk knew from history that Lafayette, who was serving as an aide to General Washington, rode to survey the flanking assault and arrived just after the British Second Light Infantry and a regiment of Hessian Jaegers scattered the men. The British soldiers charged up Birmingham Hill toward General Conway, who was holding the top. Lafayette dismounted and attempted to rally the men. It was at this point that he was shot. The young general proved an easy target for a British sharpshooter due to his blue uniform. Lafayette refused to leave the field until his men were able to make an organized retreat, and would not allow treatment of his wound until they found shelter some twelve miles away.

Somewhere between the Frenchman taking a bullet in the leg and that haven of safety, Happer Clayworth meant to change history.

Kirk knew the historian was here in the midst of this chaos. Happer wouldn't be _able_ to stay away. Allied as he was with Washington's troops, Jim had been steadily working his way toward Birmingham Hill. Under cover of fog, with the benefit of the noise, confusion and chaos of battle, the starship captain had employed his phaser on a low setting to cut a pathway so he could move more quickly. The Starfleet Brass wouldn't like it, but if it worked, they'd never have to know. That was the weird thing about time travel. Once things were set right, it was as if all the _wrong_ ones had never happened.

At least he hoped it was. He'd hate to think there was another reality somewhere where Jim Kirk had saved the woman he loved, only to lose his country and future to a murderous dictator.

Casting aside such gloomy thoughts, Kirk continued to plow his way through hundreds of screaming, fighting men. The phaser, unfortunately, provided no protection and so he was bloodied and had several wounds from where musket balls had cut through his clothing and burnt or grazed his skin. It bothered him to know that Bones intended to follow him into this. He had to hope that, once the doctor arrived, McCoy would have the good sense to remain at the edge of the conflict where he could tend to those whose pain he could ease.

At least Spock was unconscious and safe in Washington's camp.

Kirk ducked as a bullet whizzed past his head so close it left his ear ringing. He was almost at the hill and, amidst the insanity that swirled and whirled about him, he could hear one voice rising above all of the rest. As he drew closer, Kirk ran into men who were simply standing still, staring, with stunned looks on their faces. A few were pointing. The ones who pointed weren't stunned.

They were in awe.

And then Kirk saw him, the young man he had been introduced to as Paul de Motier. Lafayette was at the front of the line, astride his horse, riding back and forth as he alternately chided and encouraged his men. He was calling on them to regroup. In spite of the danger Kirk stopped to watch. The young man's brown hair blew in the breeze born of the discharge of thirty thousand weapons. His pale face was blackened with powder and dirt. His brown eyes blazed and his back was unbent. He was the picture of certainty in the Cause.

"Are you children?" Lafayette shouted. "Or are you men? What will you tell them when you arrive home? Will your children sit at your knee and hear stories of valor and courage? Stories of how you held the field in triumph? Or will they call you weak for running? Will they name you _cowards?_ "

Some of the men had stopped. Others were still milling about and many, fleeing in fear. The young marquis reined in his horse abruptly and leapt from its back to the ground. Once there, he took the flat side of his sword and struck the two men closest to him.

"This day is a day to remember! This day will live forever in men's hearts! Choose to stand and fight and to be a part of it!" The young marquis' voice cracked. He was near to exhaustion, though exhilaration carried him forward. " _Choose_ to be men!"

And then it happened. Kirk saw the Frenchman wince, but he didn't miss a beat. Moving into the thick of things, Lafayette continued to rally the men. The starship captain knew from eyewitness accounts that the young man had not even realized he had been hit. It was only later, when the loss of blood became bad enough to overflow the top of his boot, that he was forced to stop and retreat.

Kirk had to follow him. He had to be there as that happened. The starship captain had witnessed the rip in history clearly in his first officer's mind. Another man, a frontiersman of some sort, had been helping the marquis to escape. They had paused at the side of the river, hidden by a clump of high grasses, and then history had changed. A British major – it had to be Tarleton – had ridden up on his white horse with half a dozen men. All had taken aim. The Marquis de Lafayette had fallen, his lean frame riddled with bullets.

Lafayette _died._

Shaking off the image, Jim Kirk pushed through the wall of unwilling men. As he did, someone gripped his arm and held it tightly. Puzzled, he pivoted, wondering if it was some frightened soul determined to prevent him from continuing the fight. It wasn't.

It was Happer Clayworth.

"I'm afraid I can't allow you to do what you've come to do, Captain Kirk," Clayworth snarled. "Not when I am this close."

"Happer! For God's sake, man, _think_ what you are doing!" Kirk shouted as he pulled away. "The future can't survive this – "

The historian's eyes were wide and _wild_ with manic fury. "The future will survive, Captain, but you won't." Kirk felt the barrel of a flintlock pistol pressed into his ribs.

He had only a second to prepare himself to die.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeremy Larkin reached out to steady Commander Spock. The ebon-haired man had stopped suddenly and jarringly. The two of them were on their way to the battlefield via a circuitous route that Spock had directed him to take, which placed them on the opposite side of the river. Before rescuing Isak and Henry from the prison tent's interior, his strange companion had wound a linen bandage around his head again to disguise his more unusual attributes. As they left Washington's camp, Spock had dispatched Henry and Isak to town, telling them to retrieve the charges they had prepared as they would be needed to guard the army's rear, and to wait for them at an appointed place.

They were due to rendezvous with the two men in fifteen minutes.

The rebel leader could tell the other man was unwell, though Spock had given no indication of it other than his slightly unsteady gate and occasional harsh breathing. Or at least he hadn't until a moment ago. As he halted, Spock paled and lifted a trembling hand to his face.

A name escaped his lips like a prayer. "Jim…."

"What is it?" Jeremy asked.

The ebon-haired man shook his head. "I cannot be certain. I had a sense of extreme fear from a man who knows none. It is gone now."

"A sense? You mean you are…connected to another somehow?"

Spock met his puzzled stare with dispassion. "It is the way with my kind."

"Who is he?"

"My captain." The unusual man grimaced. "At least he was."

"Is he dead then?"

It took a few seconds for Spock to reply. He swallowed hard before speaking. "Unknown."

"Can you travel?" Jeremy asked him.

His companion nodded. "There is no choice."

By the time they met up with Henry and Isak, the two already had the canisters in place. Spock inspected their work, nodded his approval, and then said, "The British pursuit will materialize soon. Wait until the soldiers are deep in the water and then use these to convince them that you are more than three."

"Aye, it can work," Henry agreed.

"Wait." Isak's hand shot out, clutching Jeremy's sleeve. "What is that?" With his other hand he pointed to the river bank. "They're right in our line of fire."

The rebel leader drew a sharp breath. It was just as Commander Spock had described. Lafayette and Sergeant Evans were working their way up the bank. Jeremy turned to the curious stranger to comment, but found him gone.

"Where is Spock?" he asked.

Isak shrugged. "Flying fast through the trees as if the old Nick himself were after him."

"What do we do, Jeremy?" Henry asked, his face ashen.

The rebel leader turned back to stare at the two men leaving the water.

"Wait here," Jeremy said, breathless. "I will get them."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock ran for all he was worth, ignoring musket fire and cannon ball, vaulting over dead horse and man alike, denying the torrent of emotion that crashed into him with every step. He was too tired and weak to screen it out. There was so much suffering, so _much_ death. The tide of unending violence and its accompanying wave of corporate fear and pain were the reason he could not hone in on Jim's mind. At least, that was what he kept telling himself. The only other explanation was that the captain was dead and that was neither a logical nor acceptable alternative.

Spock halted. Standing as a stone parting the waters of defeat, surrounded by an unending sea of ragtag soldiers beating a retreat, the Vulcan reached out with his mind, searching for his friend. At the edge of his senses there was a faint answering flicker of consciousness. Closing his eyes, Spock honed in on it. Jim was alive, but in grave danger. Mere seconds counted.

 _Jim,_ he projected. _Where are you? Jim!_

Surprise first, then _– with Clayworth._

 _Jim, I am here._ The Vulcancould hear the desperation – the emotion in his own voice. He did not deny it. _Where are you? Tell me where!_

There was a long pause.

 _Washington…._

And then Spock knew. The crazed historian had a new plan. Fearing their arrival and interference would alter his amended timeline, Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth had taken matters into his own hands. Taking Jim along with him, he had gone to assassinate George Washington.

Spock's eidetic memory flew through the details of the battle. After defeat seemed certain, near midnight, Washington and his men had retreated to Chester. It was approximately ten o'clock now. Where would the commander-in-chief be?

Perhaps seeking the young Lafayette?

Since they had not been recalled by the Guardian, Spock knew time had not yet righted itself. Either Jeremy Larkin had not been able to prevent Lafayette's execution, or this new gambit of Clayworth's would succeed. Logically it was too late to do anything to assist Jeremy and the others. The last known location of the young marquis had been at the bottom of Birmingham Hill. With too few facts to correlate the Vulcan was reduced to playing a 'hunch'.

Concluding that _was_ the only logical thing to do, Spock made his decision and once again began to run.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jim Kirk's chest felt like a horse had kicked it in. It was all he could do to breathe. Happer Clayworth's antique weapon had misfired, driving the ball into his ribs with breaking, but not killing force. When he realized Kirk was still alive, the historian had pistol-whipped the side of his captain's head sending Jim into blackness. The starship captain had only awakened this moment to find himself trussed both hand and foot, and laying by the side of an overturned wagon. All about him men were dying. The pitch of the battle had moved on from here and all that was left was a sad aftermath of tormented screams and broken, bleeding bodies. Kirk winced and rolled onto his good side, seeking the crazed historian. He finally found him, kneeling some ten feet away behind the upright bed of a burnt cart. Happer held a flintlock rifle, which he balanced on the blackened wood. Citing along it, Clayworth looked as if he was preparing to fire.

Jim Kirk blinked and shifted his head, trying to follow the trajectory. He was gagged as well so there was no way he could command the historian to tell him what was happening. A mist of smoke concealed the battlefield to some extent. Within the manmade fog men moved as ghosts. Kirk heard several voices shouting signs and countersigns, and then one of them rose above the others. It was calling out a name.

"Gilbert! Gilbert! Are you here?"

Kirk's heart lurched. He knew the voice. He had heard it only that afternoon, rallying the troops.

It was George Washington.

Struggling against the gag, Kirk tried to call out. But Happer had been thorough. The ropes that bound his arms had been looped around his neck as well. When he pulled against them, they strangled him. Close to passing out, there was nothing James T. Kirk could do but watch helplessly as George Washington, the hope of his 18th century nation, was assassinated by a man with a diseased mind from five hundred years in the future.

And then another man appeared, walking out of the mist and straight into Clayworth's line of fire. He was pallid as a newly risen spirit and, Kirk feared, soon to become one.

It was Spock.

"Lower the rifle, Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth. That is an order!" the Vulcan commanded.

"I'll kill you, Spock. I swear I will! Get out of the way!"Happer's voice rose with mounting hysteria. _"Get out of the way now!"_

Spock did no such thing. He drew a step closer. "Happer, you are a historian. History is your science. You pollute it by this act."

"No….."

"Think. _If_ in your right mind you would never, in good conscience, consider such a rash act." The Vulcan's voice was completely calm, as if the walk he took was on a beach and not toward the deadly end of a loaded weapon.

Kirk blinked. Was that Amanda's laughter he heard calling?

"Spock…" he mumbled, "no…."

The Vulcan's gaze did not waver from its object. "Give me the rifle, Lieutenant Commander. Do not do this thing."

Ignoring the pain it engendered, Kirk rolled over so he could watch Happer. He saw a battle enjoined on the historian's face. Clayworth was fighting with himself. He grimaced. His lips trembled. He wiped sweat away from his forehead. His left cheek jerked and one eye twitched. Happer considered the Vulcan's approaching figure for a heartbeat or two.

And then his finger closed on the trigger.

 _No!_ Kirk's scream sounded through his link with Spock as a shot rang out. _No…_ he gasped. _No…._ Washington was safe but Spock…. Spock was….

"Captain."

Collecting himself Kirk looked up as a hand fell on his shoulder. It was the Vulcan; pale, exhausted, but _alive._ Spock gazed at him for a heartbeat or two, and then crouched and removed his gag.

Kirk sputtered out dirt. Then he demanded, "Spock? Why aren't…you dead?"

As Spock rose to his feet, a second figure appeared beside him. The Vulcan turned to regard the other man. "This is Sergeant Daniel Boggs. Aide to General Washington. He is the one who shot Lt. Cmdr. Clayworth."

Kirk felt himself relax for the first time since this whole insane affair had begun.

"And saved the American Revolution," he laughed in spite of the pain.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Doctor Leonard McCoy lifted his head from the ancient medical text he was examining at the sound of someone moving through the hallway. He turned to find an attractive young lady standing just within the room, staring at the two men asleep in the beds. They were nearly fifteen miles away from the battlefield in a safe house. In the aftermath of the Battle of Brandywine it had been deemed wise for the survivors to put as much distance between their enemies and themselves as quickly as possible. George Washington and his troops had retreated through Chester, moving on to homes, taverns, and churches where they could recoup and their wounded, receive treatment.

The surgeon had spent the majority of the battle on the sidelines, dealing with casualties as they limped off the field. Once the worst of it was over, he had begun to search for his friends. He knew Spock and Jim both intended to be near the marquis, so he had asked around to find out what had happened to the young man. Several witnesses told him that, after taking a ball in the thigh, the Frenchman had been helped from the field by several men and then finally turned over to one of his aides, a gruff sergeant by the name of Evans. Sergeant Evans had tossed a frontiersman's coat over the young general's blue and buff uniform, disguising him, and taken him along the river toward safety as Washington's army beat a hasty retreat with the British in hot pursuit. There had been a moment where they were almost captured – the moment Spock had explained was the fulcrum of the change Happer Clayworth meant to make – but the danger had been averted when Jeremy Larkin risked his life to reach them and bring the pair to safety. Instead of killing Lafayette, Major Fletcher Tarleton and his British troops had been embarrassed and undone when Henry Abington ignited his explosive charges. As the major had ridden away, it had been reported that Jeremy Larkin cheekily told the British officer to 'have a safe crossing.'

All of this was interesting, but it had done little to help him find his friends. Finally, it had been Sergeant Boggs who had directed him to them. The surgeon found the pair in the back of a crowded wagon along with other wounded. Spock's eyes were open but he didn't see him. The Vulcan's hand was positioned on Jim Kirk's face.

Jim's waistcoat had been covered in blood.

Fortunately, the blond man's wounds had been mostly superficial, though the impact of the musket ball had broken several ribs. For a time, McCoy worried about the effect of shock. Still in the end, with Spock's help, Jim had pulled through as he always did. There was nothing the surgeon couldn't put right with James T. Kirk once they got back to the _Enterprise._

 _When_ ever that would be.

Spock he had practically had to sit on. Once the Vulcan knew Jim was all right he had stated his intention to return to the field to claim Happer Clayworth's body, thinking that was why they had not yet been returned to their own time. McCoy had absolutely forbidden it. There were other men that could do the deed, he told him. Sergeant Boggs for one. McCoy told Spock in no uncertain terms that it was _his_ belief that their weakened condition and wounds were the reason they were still here. Jim was in no shape to travel to the grocer, let alone through time. And if Spock would only admit it, the same went for him. McCoy had left the Vulcan sitting silent by his captain's side and returned half an hour later to find him prone and in a deep, healing sleep.

McCoy stirred and set the book down, realizing just how long he had left the poor girl standing in the doorway.

"Elizabeth, come in," he said.

The brown-haired woman advanced toward him, her eyes on the bed that held Spock's sleeping form. "I came to see if Spock was awake. I have to leave soon. I managed to get word to my uncle that I had been staying with a friend out of town. I told him I found Goodwife Berth's company unacceptable."

"Will you be all right?" the surgeon asked.

She smiled sweetly. "Uncle is cross with me, but relieved to find I am safe and well. I will get a tongue lashing, little more." Elizabeth hesitated and then advanced to the end of Spock's bed. "A most unusual man," she said, almost to herself.

"Yes, he is that."

McCoy studied her for a moment. Elizabeth Coate's interest in Spock was based solely on what he had done for her and her country, and not on any pre or _post_ pubescent attraction. The surgeon rose and stretched. Then he smiled at her. "If you would keep watch for a few minutes, I think I'll go get a cup of coffee."

She nodded, grateful. "I will. And…thank you."

With a nod, McCoy left the room and descended the stairs.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Elizabeth Coates watched him go, and then turned back to find Spock watching her.

"Oh, you're awake!"

"I have been for some time now," he said as he gingerly righted his body and leaned against the wooden headboard. "I was conserving strength and meditating on our current situation."

"I see." She moved forward and, with his permission, sat on the edge of the bed. Glancing at the blond man in the _other_ bed, she asked, "How is your friend?"

Spock's near-black eyes flicked to the quiescent form and back. "Healing. Jim will be all right."

"I'm glad." She fell silent then, feeling a little awkward. "I wanted to…. Well, I felt I should say…."

The look he favored her with bore the shadow of a smile. "You are welcome."

She laughed. "Can you read my mind?"

"Not without touching you," he answered seriously. "Humans feel a predilection to express gratitude when one is only doing one's duty. I had assumed you wished to thank me for saving you."

Humans. She shuddered at the use of the word as it suggested that he was something _other_ than human.

"You are upset," Spock said.

"No…. Yes." She scowled. "I don't know. It's hard to forget what I have seen."

The ebon-haired man studied her a moment. "Would you like to forget?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. And no." Elizabeth laughed this time. "I sound like a silly woman who cannot make up her mind."

"You are not silly, Elizabeth."

She met his cool black stare. "Can you _really_ make me forget?"

He nodded.

"But I wouldn't want to forget you," she protested. "Can I just forget…what you a _re?_ "

Spock thought about it a moment. "Selective memory loss. I believe that could be achieved."

She squirmed a bit. "Will it hurt?"

He lifted a hand and placed it on her arm. "Does this?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "No."

"Or this?" His fingers moved to her face, positioning themselves along its side.

"No."

"Elizabeth," Spock said, his deep voice resounding through her, "listen to my voice. Our minds are coming together. Our minds are one…."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeremy Larkin nearly ran Elizabeth down as she left the room where James Kirk and Spock lay recovering. It was time for them to go and though he hated to hurry her, he had things to do. He needed to assist his brother. Robert and his men were on their way to the Springfield Tunnel. He had to help General Lafayette as well. The Frenchman had informed them that the British had hurt them badly. Perhaps mortally. In one morning, almost without a struggle, the enemy had taken their most priceless possession: eighteen guns of the line. All the artillery Washington's army had. It would take months to replace the guns and, without them, the Continentals dare not take the field. It was Jeremy's intention to take them back. Henry had a plan. Isak was willing.

He could not wait.

"Bess," he said softly as he caught her by the shoulder.

A little sound escaped her as she seemed to come awake. When she saw him, she beamed. "Oh, Jeremy, I was just coming to look for you. Spock wants to see you."

"He's awake then? Good." Jeremy brushed her cheek with his fingers and planted a kiss on her brow. "I would like to speak to him as well."

Elizabeth regarded him silently, and then returned the kiss with feeling. "I'll meet you at the wagon," she said and then drifted down the stairs.

Spock was sitting up in the bed, waiting for him. Jeremy entered the room, walked to the foot of the bed and then stood there, not knowing what to say. Finally, he attempted to begin. "Sir, for all you and your companions have done for us, there are no words…."

"None are necessary, Captain Larkin."

Jeremy still felt odd when he heard that title. Lafayette had commissioned them after they had rescued him from the field, but few had given voice to it. "I do not agree," he replied.

"I have my duty as you have yours." Spock straightened up, wincing just a bit as he did. "It was my duty that compelled me to send Elizabeth in search of you. As you are aware, we are from the future. Once our mission was accomplished, we should have been recalled. We have not been."

"Why do you think that is?" Jeremy asked.

One of Spock's ink black eyebrows shot up. "I believe it is you, Jeremy."

"Me?"

Spock's deep voice was sober. "The knowledge I was forced to share with you must, in time, compel you to take a different course from what was intended. I do not know what will engender this change, but I feel certain that – whatever it is – the ultimate outcome is the reason we are still here."

"Well, I cannot have done anything yet. Unless it be to kiss my girl," he grinned.

"Such a course might engender a change – in the young lady – but I do not think that is it." Spock's face was deadpan, but Jeremy recognized the jest. The alien man hesitated. "There is a remedy."

"And what would that be?"

"I can make you forget, but I must have your permission."

Jeremy hesitated. " _Make_ me forget?"

"I have the ability to…plant the suggestion that this never happened, or that it was a dream. You will remember the events of the day with crystal clarity, but you will have no memory of the information I was compelled to share with you."

"You can do that? Is such a thing possible?"

Spock nodded slowly. "It is." His near-black eyes shifted to the open door. "You have just witnessed the result."

Jeremy frowned. He turned toward it and then back. "Elizabeth? She knew the truth about you?" A new respect grew within him for this woman he desired. To have had such information and to have kept it to herself….

"Yes," the curious stranger replied. "There was no way I could conceal what I was when we were dependent on one another in the woods."

"I see." Jeremy did not want to forget. This was beyond anything he could ever have imagined or dreamed. And yet, it was also the only way he could repay the stranger's kindness. To rescue _them_ , he must sacrifice his own desire. "Do what you have to do," he said at last.

Spock nodded his head, acknowledging the gift. He beckoned Jeremy to sit on the edge of the bed and lean forward, and then placed his hand lightly on the blond man's face. When he spoke at last, the words he spoke were intoned like a priest's.

"My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts. Our minds are drawing closer. Closer. Our minds are one.

"Forget."


	18. Epilogue

Epilogue

 _Chester Pennsylvania, September 12, 1777_

Lafayette was safe.

Robert, was dead.

He said it now, and still couldn't believe it. But there was no denying it. There was no denying the reality of his brother's dying form in his arms or the finality of the silent grave beneath the willow tree that he now faced. Jeremy Larkin reached up and ran a hand through his honey-colored hair. The wind was strong; its voice plaintive, mournful, as if it _too_ acknowledged the passing of something great, which – if it had been granted time to reach maturity – could have been _magnificent._

Jeremy stirred. He lifted an arm and struck the tears that unmanned him away with the back of his sleeve. The horror of the last few days was paramount. The Continental Army had been routed; its losses counted not in the hundreds, but in the _thousands_. But the redcoat's had not known complete success. With Robert's help, they had retaken the cannons. Though it would do little to halt the British push to occupy Philadelphia, General Washington's men had rallied at the news and were far from demoralized. They had outsmarted and outlasted the well-oiled, precision-drilled machine of the British empire and thereby emerged from the Battle of Brandywine with the hope to carry on.

And was that not the most important victory?

Jeremy shook back his blond hair and knelt, touching the earth that covered his brother's grave; clutching a handful of the finite stuff in his trembling fingers. It had not been all that long before that his father had stood here, along with a dozen others, including Major General Lafayette. Jeremy had known the Frenchman had comported himself admirably on the field, but when he heard the full extent of his actions – braving the front line, riding in plain sight of the enemy, risking his life to stop the tide of terror that was Washington's fleeing army – he had become acutely aware of the great loss the Cause would have suffered had he and Henry and Isak not rescued the young man. And of the loss it would have been to His Excellency. After they had rescued the Frenchman, on the road to Bethlehem, George Washington had finally found his young general. It was reported that His Excellency had ordered that Lafayette be treated as if he were his son.

There was something of greatness there, between the two of them; something that would work to the corporate good and the end of all things to come.

Jeremy laid a hand on his brother's stone and leaned against it wearily. One year. It had barely been more than one year and there had already been so many losses, so much grief. How much more was there to come? Was the fight worth it? Did they dare to hope they might win? After all, how _could_ they? England was the most powerful nation in the world. By comparison, they were nothing. They had nothing.

No, that wasn't right.

They had spirit, and courage, and a desire to know liberty and to make it count for all. And for some reason – he couldn't quite place _why_ – he knew it was going to happen. Jeremy knew his brother's sacrifice – the sacrifice of _all_ the brothers lost in this conflict would not be in vain.

Jeremy rose to his feet. He let the clump of earth fall to Robert's grave.

"Be at peace, Robert," he whispered. "Your work is done." Then Jeremy turned and looked back toward the now quiet battlefield; the place where so many brothers had made the ultimate sacrifice.

"Ours is just begun."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 _The Starship Enterprise, Stardate 33.05.9_

Jim Kirk stood with his hand raised above the intercom, hesitating outside his first officer's quarters. He had just been released from sickbay and was heading for his own rooms when he had been seized by the need to talk to the Vulcan. Spock had been released the day before and they had not had a chance to discuss the events that had transpired. Still, it was late – more than halfway through the nighttime cycle of the ship. He knew Spock seldom slept the night through, but he might be meditating or whatever Vulcans did instead, and would probably resent the intrusion.

What was he thinking?

Weary, Kirk lifted a hand to his forehead to try and rub away some of the tension. It wasn't often he had a headache, but tonight he did – and he had not been about to tell the good doctor about it or Bones would have kept him confined another day. He didn't think it had anything to do with his physical injuries. It was more a thing of the _soul…._ Time travel was a knot he had no desire to unravel and yet he had been forced, in a few short years, to confront it and its consequences at least four times. This misadventure had left him with a tangled problem – what to recommend to Starfleet about Sector 90.4 and the Guardian. The paperwork was laying on his desk, untouched. Paperwork _always_ gave him a headache.

Maybe he'd let Rand do it in the morning.

The touch of his fingers on his forehead reminded Jim of the second part of the reason he had come here. He was still disturbed by the link he had shared with Spock. He could still see that beach and feel the sand beneath his boots; could hear the waters of the unseen fountain running fast and the tinkle of Amanda Grayson's laughter. While it gave him some peace to know that Spock had such a place to retreat to, the power of its draw had been – well, in a word, _alarming._ He had felt it himself. The desire to go there and to remain.

Forever.

The next time a crisis arose, would Spock have the willpower to deny her?

 _Jim,_ the familiar voice spoke in his head. _Enter._

 _Sorry, Spock_ , he sent back. _Did I disturb you?_

The door to his first officer's quarters whooshed open nearly silently. _No._ _You are welcome._

Kirk took a moment to straighten his gold shirt and banish the look of pain from his face. Then he realized it was pointless. Spock already knew he was tired. There could be no hiding it. There was some… _thread_ that stretched between them. Like the bonding of twins who often knew what the other was thinking.

"Spock," he said aloud, "how are you feeling?"

The Vulcan was holding his lyrette. He placed it on the desk before him and locked his fingers together in his lap before replying. "Well. And you, Captain?"

"Physically?" Jim smiled. "Don't tell Bones, but I'm tired. Though I'm sure a good night's sleep _outside_ of sickbay will remedy whatever still ails me."

"And…the non-physical?" Spock asked.

The Vulcan's demeanor was impassive, but his dark eyes revealed something of his soul – and it was not at rest either.

"A little raw," he said as he took a seat across from his friend. "Spock, that meld…."

"I apologize, Captain, for the fact that I was not able to shield you from my… emotions."

Kirk's honey-toned eyebrows climbed toward the tumbled locks brushing his forehead. Good God! The Vulcan had admitted he _had_ them! He leaned forward. "Spock, are you all right?"

The angular face was stony. "I cannot lie. I have already said I am well."

The starship captain snorted. "Where have I heard that before?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

The Vulcan was on his best military behavior. Not one 'Jim' yet. Probably a safety mechanism. Kirk leaned back and studied him. "Do you remember the old story about George Washington and the cherry tree?"

"I do not believe that was a part of the academy curriculum."

"Not the _Vulcan_ Academy, at least," Kirk replied. "It seems young George Washington had a new hatchet. He wanted to try it out and decided to do so on his father's cherry tree. When confronted by the older man, young George replied, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.'"

Spock was silent for a long moment. "And the point of relating this tale would be?"

"He cut the tree down. He knew it. His father knew it. But the myth continued that Washington _could_ not tell a lie."

"Does this have some bearing on whatever it is you came here to discuss with me, Captain?"

"Jim, Spock. My name is _Jim_." He heard himself and he knew he was growing hot-tempered. "For God's sake, we've been in each other's _minds_ , I would think you could at least call me by my first name!"

The Vulcan was silent for some time. His shoulders rose and fell with a sigh before he spoke again. "I am what I am. There is nothing more."

Kirk shouldn't have, but he countered that with, "There is that place of peace. There is that laughter I heard." The look that overcame his friend's stoic face made him regret it instantly. "God, Spock, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…."

Spock held up his hand. For several heartbeats he said nothing. Then he rose and came to stand beside him. "With your permission. Jim. I would like to show you the rest."

"Another meld, you mean?" He hoped his tone sounded less hesitant than he felt.

"Only if you choose it."

Kirk thought about it a moment. He _had_ to know. "Okay. Go ahead."

The mind that touched his this time was strong, as it had been that day on Amerind when Spock had to put him in touch with his memories – the one the planet's obelisk-based deflector had robbed him of. Still, there was a shadow of something there, forced to the surface by McCoy's jury-rigged anesthetic.

Suddenly, he was looking at the world through a pair of near-black seven year old eyes.

 _Amanda,_ an ancient human woman said as she took her withered hand from the top of his/Spock's ebon head and crossed the room to their mother's side, _you must stop crying, dear_. _If it is ended, it is ended. There is nothing you can do. You know he will not come after you._

 _Logic from a human, and from a human female,_ his combined self thought with a shock. _Fascinating._

Their mother's intense blue eyes were rimmed with red. Amanda had been flitting around the room like a wild bird caged, beating her invisible wings against the constraints of the life she had chosen. She had perched on the end of a lush, overstuffed sofa flooded with throws and pillows. Beside her a wall of clear liquid ran, splashing over aesthetically arranged rocks, watering a shallow basin even as her tears watered her cheeks.

He/Spock did not know what to do. They understood their parents had had an argument, the result of which was their current occupation of the aged female's domicile. It was a beach house set on a long empty stretch of sand in what was known as the Chesapeake Bay. In spite of their best efforts, a scowl marred the perfection of their control.

Amanda did not miss it. Their mother looked at them and dissolved into another confusing wave of tears. After several minutes spent sobbing and fighting to master her emotions, the human woman rose and crossed over to him/them. _Spock,_ she said gently, _will you leave us?_ _There are some things I need to discuss with your Aunt Catherine. Do you understand?_

They did not, but they obeyed her anyway, moving out onto the wood deck and, from there, onto the long unending strand of sand.

Looking at the placid blue water lapping on the shore – the same water he had seen in the earlier meld – Kirk felt a sadness such as he had never known. He gasped and reared back from it, fearful that the meld had gone too far; truly _terrified_ that Spock would never be comfortable with him again.

 _Wait_ , the Vulcan's voice said. _It is almost time._

Kirk walked with the boy Spock to the edge of the water. Together they debated the logic of pitching stones into it, deciding in the end that the permutation of the equation of how many ripples resulted from the action was worth it. As they watched the endless patterns form and dissipate, seeking to lose themselves and the crash of unacceptable emotions that threatened to overtake them like an incoming tide in the moving water, they heard a sound. A strange, wondrous _forbidden_ sound.

Laughter.

Together they turned. Together, they ran to the beach house. As one, they mounted the steps that led to the sliding glass window that opened onto Aunt Catherine's undisciplined and chaotic living space, and there they found their mother – in their father's arms.

Still holding Amanda's hand, Sarek of Vulcan turned and extended his other hand to his son. Drawing him in, they became one.

Kirk came to himself slowly. No sudden wrenching this time. No struggle to break away. When he had come completely to himself he realized Spock had retreated behind his desk – _and_ the great wall of Vulcan again. His first officer and friend's angular face was inscrutable.

"Spock, I…."

"Words are not necessary…Jim," the Vulcan said, an echo of that laughter coloring his usually flat tone. "I simply wanted to show you that I did not chop down the cherry tree."


End file.
